


Stay With Me

by one_black_coffee



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depressed Stanley Uris, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sweet Bill Denbrough, mentions of the losers - Freeform, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27377803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_black_coffee/pseuds/one_black_coffee
Summary: None of the other Losers make my heart speed up. Bill just happens to.Maybe I am in love with him. Like Richie loves Eddie. But that doesn’t make me...TRIGGER WARNING: there are mentions of s*lf h*rm--- which goes along with d*pression--- in this as well as p*nic att*cks and int*rnalized h*m*phobia so if you are sensitive to these subject please do not read! I'll add warnings to the beginning of chapters that contain major references to these issues, but int*rnalized h*m*phobia is a constant theme so I generally won't add warnings for that and because s*lf h*rm won't just disappear there will be very minor talk of it in nearly every chapter. Nothing graphic, thoughstill being updated!!
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a mini inner monologue of Stan's before it really gets going
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of s*lf h*rm, internalized h*m*phobia, panic attacks, and depression

I’d be lost without him. 

I don’t admit that often. Never to his face, never to anyone else--- only in my head. I couldn’t ever say it outloud to anyone. It’s too much pressure. For him and me. Putting the weight of your life on someone is cruel. And I can’t live with the thought that I’ve put the weight of my life on anyone. Especially not someone so kind and caring. That would be evil. He has enough on his mind as is without him knowing how much I need him to keep me afloat.

But I can’t help that so often it’s true. So often the only reason I’m still here  _ is  _ him. There are other people and things in my life,--- all of the Losers, birds, books, Paul Anka--- sure, but when it comes down to why I don’t dig into my skin just a little bit harder with the sharpened edge or pick up a kitchen knife while my parents are out for the night or fill my pockets with stone before I jump into the quarry fully clothed it’s always him.

The picture of red flannels hanging loose over his cut off jean shorts. Baseball Ts that are getting too old and too small take away some of the strength holding down my hand. His gleaming smile, all teeth and bright eyes suck out even more of what little strength I have. His hair, his eyes, his nose, his clothes, the way he speaks, and the way he looks at me… Everything. All of it. Every last thing about him makes me falter right before I push down as hard as I’d like so that I barely make a mark.

He’s my confidence, my will power, my guide back to reality. I speak up when I’m told to be quiet because he told me I’m brilliant and should be heard. I don’t dive off the cliff when I want to because I would never hear his laugh again. When the night is too lively and the darkness screams too loudly he’s in my mind helping me find a way out. I can’t fucking lose him. He’s  _ everything  _ that keeps me away from falling over the edge on which I’ve been teetering for so long.

I’ll never tell him that, though. He doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t deserve to have that sort of thought weighing on him. Someone’s life sitting on your shoulders--- that already are holding your own life and the life of the little brother you firmly believe you killed--- is painful. It’s debilitating. It isn’t just a matter of supporting someone and they’ll be fine. That would be easy enough--- we all support each other--- but this is knowing that one of your best friends is not only a flight risk, for lack of a better term, but also that said best friend relies so heavily on you as emotional bargaining that if something were to happen to you, something would also most likely happen to your friend.

That’s just fucked.

And telling that person would be even more fucked.

It would just be selfish of me. He’s better off not knowing. Without this knowledge he’s already tired and sad most of the time. Georgie pulls on his mind like a particularly nasty pest problem that won’t go away and just keeps festering. I could never tell him and risk making him even more tired and sad--- or even just risk him leaving me.

So, when Bill asks me to come and sit with him in the club house my answer is easy: yes. When Bill wants to spend the night at my house so we can stay up and watch shitty horror films in the basement while my parents are asleep upstairs, completely unaware of his presence, I never say no. If Bill Denbrough asked me to walk to hell and back with him because he wanted a little company, I’d be walking the route right along with him. I won’t miss an opportunity to feel something good--- truly good--- for even a few minutes. Bill makes me feel good. He always does. He mellows out the harsh thoughts and smooths out all the uncomfortable wrinkles inhabiting my life.

I will never tell him this. I can’t tell him this. I love him too much to put him through any more sleepless nights or nagging thoughts. So it remains unsaid and untouched except for times like now when I can’t help but let my mind wander to the subject and torture myself over what I know can never be. I want to tell him, I really do. To have him know how much he means to me--- to maybe even mean the same to him--- is just something so ridiculously powerful and intimate.

Maybe if it were Bev I’d tell her. She seems to be okay with the fact that she’s got both Ben and Bill wrapped around her finger. She can function well enough--- I know it worries her sometimes but for the most part she’s okay. I think I would tell her if it were her I need like nothing else.

But it isn’t Bev.

It’s Bill.

Always has been Bill and always will be Bill.

I think he knows I need him. More or less. All the Losers need each other. I couldn’t live without Richie any more than I could without Mike. Bill couldn’t live without Eddie any more than he could without Ben. We all know we need each other. I need Bill and he needs me. We know that. But I don’t think Bill knows I need him so much more than just that. That my need to keep Bill in my life runs so much deeper than even the bonds of our friendship.

I won’t tell him. 

I won’t explain how my need for Bill is something so instinctual that I can feel it scorching my veins with it’s ichor. I won’t let on that my forearms burn and sting when he’s too far away. I won’t let him see the way the skin on my wrists is deformed and ugly but so much better than it could be if I were to lose his soft touches--- so warm and flowing and full of love compared to the sick aches and burns of my own touch.

I need him and I hate it. 

I hate myself. 

I’m a sick fuck and I can’t go on like this. I can’t keep moving forward in my life needing Bill’s gaze to be on me and his hot but grounding skin to be pressed lightly against my own. I need to be the center of his attention at all times--- and if not the center of his attention then I need him to be touching me somehow. A hand on mine. An arm resting next to mine so that I can feel his skin. It’s sick. Disgusting. I can’t need him as badly as I do. It isn’t fair to him. It isn’t fair to the Losers. It’s  _ unnatural. _ I just fucking can’t keep needing him like this.

But... I can’t  _ not _ need him like I do.

I’ve tried so hard to replace him. Smiles so large his cheeks pushed up into his eyes that sent me reeling into unbridled fits of ecstasy became long hours spent at the library hoping to catch the eye of a beautiful girl just to prove to myself that it wasn’t  _ Bill _ so much as it was the attention from anyone. Whispered words of affirmation making me shiver were--- poorly--- translated into reading the poetry of anonymous authors, most likely long dead, to find the messages meant for every specific reader to make it clear that Bill’s words meant nothing more to me than those of a complete stranger. 

None of it ever worked.

After too long of nothing working and me just getting sicker and sicker I began to, instead of searching for something’s twin, search to something’s equal opposite. If Bill’s eyes gleaming in the sunlight set kaleidoscopes of butterflies fluttering about at the very top of my stomach, I’d find a way to make myself sick right down to the very bottom of my stomach--- my thoughts alone were generally enough to do the trick. Should Bill’s slightly sweaty hands on my shoulder be my only means of finding the Earth once again, I would find cool metal to press against every open bit of skin I could find. But even that doesn’t work.

And I fucking hate myself.

No matter what I find my way back to Bill. He is my only pure source of comfort--- and even he makes me want to scream or cry or puke my guts out or relish in the pain that zaps every nerve in my body. In the middle of the day when the only place I can look is the ground without having to fear who I might see, Bill is still in my head smiling. At night when it’s too dark to see anything except the shimmering trails running down my skin, Bill is in my head telling me everything I need to hear.

Fucking Bill.

Stupid fucking Bill.

Beautiful, perfect, goddamn Bill.

I need him so much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no warnings for this one!

“Hey, Stan,” a warm hand presses against my back, away from the view of the rest of the Losers, “y-you okay?” Another hand lands on my bicep. Right side. Left side is all clear.

I look over my shoulder to see a pale boy with thick auburn hair falling over his forehead and a nervous smile playing at his lips sitting behind me on the boulder. “Yeah, everything’s fine, Bill.” I do my best to give him a genuine smile, one he returns with the same nervous twitching but with more concern in his eyes. I don’t need his concern. I don’t need his attention.

We’ve been gathered at the quarry for hours. Bev and Richie are passing a joint back and forth, seeing who can make the best smoke ring. Eddie is hiding away under a tree--- “I’m going to get skin cancer if I sit out here for another minute”--- with a towel over his head and a comic book in his lap. Ben, Mike, and Bill were all sitting on their own rocks having a lazy conversation about something or other but now it seems Ben and Mike are carrying on said conversation without Bill.

I’ve been sitting off to the side of the others, having found my own boulder far enough from the sun to avoid having to roll up my sleeves but close enough to my friends to be included. We all sort of separated into our own little groups eventually, anyway.

The rock I chose is big enough for me to curl up on and take a nap. I had been trying to fall asleep for some time but no matter which way I moved my skin would be stretched too tightly, barely holding together, threatening to rip right back open. Needless to say, I sat back up before long. Falling asleep outside is a pain, anyway. All the bugs and pollen floating around. I’d rather keep awake and have the spiders stay far away.

The sunlight is blinding and giving me the start of a skull splitting headache. It’s far too hot and I have had far too little water. I have to squint to see anything which isn’t doing my pounding head any good. You must be able to feel the vein in my temple pulsing--- I’m tempted to reach up and see for myself but moving makes my empty stomach turn. Besides, with Bill sitting almost next to me, I have to act normal. Trying to find a pulse on the side of your head is not normal.

He’s looking at me still. I can feel his eyes on the side of my face. There’s warmth spreading across my cheeks and ears, I can feel that, too. Nervous warmth. I wish he would look away. I don’t need his concern. And I sure as hell don’t need him to touch me. I shrug away from him until he gets the hint and removes his hands.

“A-a-are you sh-sure, Stan?” There’s something about hearing my name from Bill--- without a hint of a stutter--- that makes my heart skip a beat. Maybe it’s the way he always seems to manage to whisper my name with a hint of some deep emotion I fear too much to pinpoint. Maybe it’s because I know it’s wrong and my body is trying to kill me itself by way of a heart attack.

“Yeah, Bill, I’m fine,” I say again. I look back at Bill again and give him another smile. He smiles back and nods.

“Well, o-okay then. Uh…” He stands back up, floundering for what to say or do next. His arms still host water droplets from jumping in the lake and his hair is holding on to the dark auburn it becomes once it gets wet. I like his lighter hair. It shines in the sunlight when dry. “Do you wanna j-join u-u-us? Mike, Ben, and m-me?”

Would I like to spend time with a shirtless Bill and talk about god knows what? I absolutely would. But I would also rather jump off this cliff and hit the water so hard every one of my bones snaps in half. “Nah, it’s okay. I’m probably gonna head home, anyway.” I had no intentions of going home before I said this but now it’s out there so I might as well leave. No good reason to stick around.

“Oh… O-okay.” Bill keeps staring at the back of my head as I pack up my book and pair of swimming trunks I brought “just in case” into my bookbag. If I act like I might go swimming no one questions me when I don’t. I have the option, I simply chose to not because I’m not in the mood right now--- that’s what the Losers see. “Do you want--”

“Tell everyone I said bye, will ya?” I start walking away before he can tell me no. I don’t even turn around. I can’t turn around. Looking at Bill for another second is bound to make me puke up whatever food I’ve had recently.

My bike is propped up on a tree with the rest of our bikes. Silver is lying on her side under Eddie’s bike. That’s not important, though. Bill’s bike has nothing to do with mine so there’s no need for me to even notice it.

I grab my bike, pushing the kickstand up with my foot and wheeling it onto the dirt path. I don’t usually bike home alone. When we’re all leaving we ride together and branch off when we get closer to home. Lately, though, it's becoming more and more common for me to leave earlier and have the ride back to myself. This is the third time this week I’ve headed out before the others. If any of them have noticed much, they haven’t said anything. Richie’s made a few jokes and Bev and Eddie have hit him over it but other than today, no one’s questioned me. And I don’t even know why Bill questioned me today. That could have been for a number of reasons. Maybe the discomfort in my arms or head was showing more than I meant. Or maybe sitting in the sun made what little skin isn’t covered in clothing look sicker and paler. Maybe Bill was just wondering and I’m overthinking it.

Whatever Bill’s reasoning was to leave Ben and Mike, it doesn’t matter now. I’ll do better to hide everything next time. Now I just have to get home and avoid my parents. Easy enough. My bike doesn’t make too much noise and, if I’m careful enough, neither does the front door. Mother will most likely be in the backyard with a book and a glass of ice water. If Father is home, he’ll be in the study at the back of the house--- if he isn’t home he’ll be at work far, far away from me.

The dirt path crunches under the tires of my bike and sizzles under the blazing rays of the sun. It’s so damn hot out.

“Hey! Stan!” Another set of tires making the ground crunch sounds behind me. “W-w-wait up!” I don’t have the energy to speed up--- nor the will power--- so I slow down just enough to let Bill catch up. I didn’t hear him yell “hi ho silver away” like he always does when he gets on his bike. I didn’t even hear him following me to our bikes.

We ride in silence, next to each other except for when my legs buckle and I fall behind just a bit until Bill slows down for me. He doesn’t comment on anything. I catch him glancing at the empty water bottle I have strapped to my bike--- it’s just for show--- a couple times but we never make eye contact.

Does he want me to say something? Is he going to say something?  _ Should  _ I say something? The silence started off uncomfortable and it just keeps getting worse. I can feel Bill’s anxious energy bouncing around. Everytime I chance a look over at him he’s biting at his lower lip or twisting his handlebar in the nervous way he does when he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

I decide I won’t give him the opportunity to try and say what he wants. “Are the others coming, too?”

“Uh… N-no.” Only, he says it more like a question than anything. A question of which I can’t find the meaning. Is it okay that they aren’t coming? Did I expect them to come? Why would they come? I don’t know.

“Oh. Okay.” I don’t go further.

Our pace is rather slow. That’s all because of me. Bill keeps trying to push the pace--- he hates going slowly--- but I can’t get my legs to peddle any faster. I want to tell him he should just go on ahead or circle back to be with the rest of us. That way he’ll at least be able to talk to people and ride his bike as fast as he wants.

I avoid looking over at Bill. I don’t think I could handle that. When he pulled up to me he had his baseball T back on and his hair looked like it had been towelled off in a rush. But he’s still like a blinding hospital light everytime I look over--- I want to look, to follow some sort of light in the quickly darkening hallway but while the light is reassuring it’s also tinged with sickness; a glowing ball of untinted perfecting right at the very core but the longer I stare the more it turns tinted with the wrongness of it all.

On average, we can all make it from the quarry to our houses in fifteen minutes--- with the exception of Eddie and myself since our homes are farther than the others. On high energy days we can even make the trip in ten minutes. Today, though, it takes the two of us fifteen minutes just to make it to the center point at which Bill should turn left and I should continue straight.

Bill stops his bike in the middle of the street and looks over at me. I consider keeping riding right past him but stop anyway. 

“Come home with me,” He says. I flinch at the suddenness of his words. I shouldn’t, I know. There’s nothing strange about Bill wanting company. I’ve bypassed my street for his many times. But there’s an urgency in his voice that isn’t usually there. He’s still got his lip trapped between his teeth and his eyes look worried.

“I--” I look from Bill to the unwinding street that leads to my house, worrying my own lip in a sad reflection of Bill. “Yeah. Okay.” Why? Fuck if I know.

Bill smiles at me--- small but real--- and pushes himself back onto his bike. I follow suit and coast down the hill behind Bill.

Throughout our ride the only reason we ever picked up the pace was when we went down hills. Bill would close his eyes and lean into the wind, letting himself be carried away--- it’s always a sight to watch him so happy. I try to be like that but always end up getting worried I’ll crash into something and put on the brakes before I can go too fast. When the seven of us are together on hills Bill, Richie, and Bev are always at the very front going the fastest. Ben and Mike follow behind while Eddie and I ride cautiously at the back.

Richie gives Eddie shit--- “afraid you might end up going too fast and go flying, Eds?” “Yes, obviously, dickhead. And don’t fucking call me Eds”--- for being a pussy and riding safely. Bill never mentions it. Sometimes I like to think he doesn’t mention it because maybe… But that’s ridiculous because Bill is a good person and he isn’t a sick freak like me.

Bill reaches the bottom of the hill before I do. He only realizes I’m no longer next to him halfway down the street. He could easily keep going and just meet me at his place but instead he turns back around and does doughnuts in the middle of the road until I make it down the hill to him. I don’t mean to make him wait for me, I really don’t, I just couldn’t bring myself to go any faster down the hill.

The Denbrough house is on the corner at the far end of the street. A beautiful home that used to look so proud. Now the paint on the wood is chipping and the closer you get the more you can see how untamed the grass is. Every other house on the street looks subdued compared to the Denbrough house. It isn’t because the other houses are any less grand but simply because of the people. The Denbrough home is no longer home to the two young boys and the happy young couple who spend time out on the lawn every sunday. The Denbrough home is now subject to whispers--- “that poor family” “they hardly ever leave” “he’s one of the kids--- the little boy--- who went missing” “never the same.”

No one else is out on the street. A child’s bike has been left out on the lawn of the yellow house and a football is rolling around on the cement in front of the blue house. Bill and I are the only people daring to be outside.

It isn’t often that we stay at Bill’s house or even spend any amount of time. His parents float around in the background of the house, both too far away and all too present for comfort. The only places where Mr. and Mrs. Denbrough don’t haunt are the basement, the garage, and Bill’s room. The basement is unfinished and has racks of supplies lining the walls--- Bill won’t go down there anymore--- and it’s deathly cold. The garage, much like the basement, is host to unpleasant memories and a bone cracking cold--- even in the summer. Bill’s room is the only real option.

We leave our bikes on the front lawn and walk up to the front door. Bill is ahead of me, eyeing the yard and house in the same nervous way he’s been eyeing me. The black car--- Richie or Mike could say what type of car it is, I can’t say anything more than the color--- that hardly ever leaves the driveway has been taken out. I don’t hear any noises coming from the back yard nor from inside the house itself but Bill still creeps up to the house in practiced silence.

Before pushing the door open he puts his ear up to the wood. I can’t imagine he could hear anything, though I don’t voice my doubts. The way Bill is being so cautious, almost afraid, tells me now is not the time to start talking.

When Bill pulls back from the door and motions me forward into the house, I follow, pausing to toe off my shoes before walking up the carpeted stairs. Bill keeps his sneakers on. I don’t tell him how much dirt he’s tracking into the house. I just follow him up the steps to his bedroom, watching his hair bounce as he hops from step to step. Stupid hair. It’s drier now, lighter. I like it lighter. It looks nice. Not that it matters.

All the doors are closed down the hall. The master bedroom is always shut off, as well as Georgie’s bedroom. Bill keeps his door shut during the day but cracked open at night--- just in case Georgie shows up in the night, he told me over the phone one night. A window at the end of the hall, closer to Georgie’s room, is also shut. Natural light shines through the window in a narrow line, heating up the already rather stuffy hallway.

“Mom’s outside,” Bill says, pointing out the window at a woman sitting on the paved deck with a large sunhat and a magazine. “Dad’s out. Probably at the shop or someth-thing. I think he mentioned s-something about needing more paper cl-cl-clips this morning. I don’t really know...” Bill keeps mumbling to himself as I keep looking around.

I’ve been inside Bill’s house plenty of times. More so when Georgie was still around--- he was a good kid, sweet, dumb, innocent--- but we’ve still had a handful of meetings at Bill’s since then. Richie is always an asshole and Eddie is inadvertently an asshole too for yelling at Richie for being an asshole. Bev is kind enough to get them to shut up and Ben follows her around like a puppy. Mike is always just happy to be anywhere with us.

I don’t remember everything being so dark and stuffy, though. I can’t say if anything has changed, really. The four doors in the hallway have always stayed firmly shut throughout the day. Perhaps the window being closed is something new? I can’t recall whether or not this is true. Maybe I’m going insane. Maybe it’s just gotten to a point that everything’s darker.

That’s fun.

“You c-coming?” The door to Bill’s room is open, light pouring into the hallway from behind Bill. He’s standing in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, the other by his side. If I was brave I’d take his hand. No. If I was even more deranged I’d take his hand. If I was just a little bit sicker.

“Yeah.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: panic attacks and mentions of s*lf h*rm

It’s a small space. Big enough for a twin bed, a bookshelf, a nightstand, and a desk. Trying to fit seven of us in here is a chore in which none of us feel the need to partake. But with just two people the room is big enough.

Georgie helped Bill pick out the wall colors when they were younger--- a bright orange accent wall behind his bed and three aqua painted walls surrounding it. It’s always reminded me of a fishbowl for some reason. The orange being a goldfish swimming around in a bowl too small for it’s huge life--- it’s going to outgrow it some day soon. Maybe it’ll find its way out to a better place where it can thrive. Maybe it’ll just turn itself over and give up.

The carpet kind of looks like little rocks at the bottom of the tank.

Band posters and old maps and drawings are taped to the walls. Stickers from one of Georgie’s coloring books are stuck to the drawers of Bill’s dresser. Some of the stickers have been peeled off, leaving the annoying underside that just sits there and mocks you.

Bill crosses the room and sits down on his bed. Navy blue sheets poke out from under his duvet cover--- an intricate design of blue and purple flowers. He kicks off his sneakers now, tossing them both under his desk.

He’s got papers thrown all over the desk. Pencils and pens are scattered across the top. The silver and black pen the Losers and I bought for Bill for his birthday last year is the only writing utensil that looks like it’s been placed with purpose rather than by a frantic Bill at three in the morning. I walk over to his desk and move around a couple of papers, looking at his work. The majority of the papers are scrawled in Bill’s loopy handwriting--- no doubt some story he’s created but won’t share for ages--- others are drawings. There’s a roughly drawn sketch of Bev, another is a tracing of a picture Mike took of Eddie and Richie wrestling, even some drawings of birds. Mostly little chickadees but there are also some magpies that have been colored.

Magpies.

They remind me of Bill. Distracted by shiny objects, skittish… I don’t really know why. I just do. They’re beautiful birds, anyway.

“Stan?” He’s got his feet tucked under himself on the bed. His back is pressed against the headboard--- dark wood that matches his nightstand and dresser.

I stop picking up different papers from his desk. “Yeah, Bill?”

He pats the spot on the bed next to him and says, “Sit with me?” I could leave right now. Run out of the house and never have to speak to Bill. Maybe I could run away entirely and not have to speak to any of the Losers ever again. I could turn right around and walk out into the street and just go. Get my bike and ride away. I could. I think I could, anyway.

But I fucking  _ know _ I can’t. Not because that’s ridiculous and I would be dead within two days--- I am perfectly aware of that and am drawn to it all the more--- but because it’s Bill asking me to sit. I could ignore Bev and Eddie, throw something at Richie, change the subject with Ben and Mike but I can’t do anything to Bill. I can’t do anything but what he asks me to do. Especially not when he’s looking at me from a patch of sunlight, looking so concerned but familiar and comforting. I would do anything for this idiot. All he has to do is ask. Not even ask nicely. Just  _ ask _ . It’s disgusting.

“Sure, Bill.” Anything, Bill. Anything and everything, Bill. Any time, Bill. I’m yours, Bill. I’m all yours, Bill.

I sit down next to him, keeping my feet on the ground and dropping my bag and shoes by the base of the bed. I don’t really know what to do here. Bill is behind me, I can feel him looking at me, but I’m too stiff and on edge to turn around. My legs burn and catch on my pants every time I move too much, so do my arms. The bed dips as Bill shifts around.

I should turn around to face him. It’s making me anxious not being able to see him. But only because I don’t like people standing behind me. That’s it. I swear. Nothing having to do with the fact that I’m already fucked and looking at his eyes makes anxiety calm the fuck down. No because that would be--

“So, uh…” I pull my sleeves down ever lower over my hands. It’s a cotton sweatshirt my mother got for me a few years ago. A goldfinch is settled on a branch in the center of the green fabric. I used to love it and wear it constantly. After a few months of wearing it as a comfort shirt after bad nights it started to lose the happiness. Now it’s more just routine. Which, I know is insanely dangerous if someone were to figure out the pattern, but it’s just how it is now. Just a constant I can’t stand to lose.

I can feel Bill thinking again. Tension is building up in the air, in my muscles, in my lungs but all in different directions. The air is pushing in on me, forcing me into myself at the same time as every muscle in my body tries to expand outwards until I explode. My lungs have given up. The tension has broken them so they won’t move. Is this how Eddie feels during an asthma attack? Probably not, but it still sucks.

I have no idea what he’s going to say. It’s driving me crazy. If he’s going to accuse me of something I’d like to get it over with so I can leave and have a panic attack in private. It’s getting harder to keep the panic attack down. Everytime he moves and the bed jolts, every time I hear him open then close his mouth--- a sound to which I’ve become quiet attuned, alway listening closer when I hear it---, more and more panic floods my system. My chest is tightening, being forced in from the outside and out from the inside. I can feel the electricity of anxiety buzzing through my arms and legs and chest. My stomach is rolling around, groaning in discomfort.

“Listen, Bill--” As soon as I start to speak I feel it. The panic seizing the opportunity and striking right through every part of me. “Fuck.” Fuck this. Shit. I can feel my heart pounding in my head, my stomach, my feet, my fingers, everywhere. I can even hear it.

My legs make the decision before I do. I’ve got the bedroom door open with one hand and the bathroom door open with the other before I recognize that I’m moving.

The walls are all white in here. Everything is shiny and white and bright. Something’s buzzing somewhere. It might be the bathtub or it might be something in my body. All I know is that something is buzzing and I can’t get rid of it. 

I look around the bathroom for… Fuck I don’t even know? A seat? Something cold? Something sharp enough to draw out enough blood to let the panic seep out of my body, leaving me shaking and depressed instead of shaking and anxious? Hell, I’d even take something against which I could hit my head. Maybe that’ll get the buzzing to go away.

But there’s nothing in here for me. In my own bathroom or bedroom I don’t have to hold back. No one’s going into my room so no one will find the evidence of what I have worked so hard to keep hidden. Here, though, Bill will be able to see whatever happens. Whatever blood I can’t clean up, whatever I dent with my skull.

It’s so hot in here. Why is it so hot? But not good hot. Not the engulfing warm that makes you want to take a nap in the sun but the kind of hot that’s burning and sizzling and sweaty. I hate it. It’s too hot. My skin is radiating heat. I can feel the heat getting trapped under the sleeves of my shirt, wrapping around my arms like layers of bandages.

Fuck it.

Bill isn’t here. No one else is here. It’s too hot to keep these sleeves up, anyway. It’ll be fine. I think. Who cares? The world is on fire and we’re all dying, anway.

I hate looking at my arms. They’re all scabbed and ugly. Angry red slashes running up and down terribly white skin, almost enough to make white skin red entirely. And they itch. They hurt and they prickle and they seethe in a messy, screaming symphony of pins. It’s been long enough that the need to scratch my arms raw is a constant ache. The rest of today I was able to ignore it, rub them every once in a while when no one was looking, but now is now and now is  _ fucked _ .

So up go the sleeves and I can’t stop myself. My nails are jagged from biting them--- I need to file them down so they're smooth and even again. I suppose I’ll do that later--- and they more than easily tear off the scabs, making them bleed once again.

I don’t even know what’s going on anymore. Where are all terrifying thoughts? My brain is empty. All that’s going through my mind is… something. A blankness so devoid of anything it’s screaming. Does that count as something?

I say it counts as something because a “nothing” can’t make me feel like this. Only a “something” can have this much of an effect. A “nothing” shouldn’t have so much power. No power. It shouldn’t be real.

“Nothing” shouldn’t make butterflies fly around in my stomach. “Nothing” shouldn’t make me panic so fucking much. “Nothing” is only nothing if touches and glances and words and warm breath on my neck didn’t make me want to cry.

“Nothing” is only nothing if it isn’t Bill Denbrough.

Oh fuck.

“Nothing” is only nothing if it isn’t Bill Denbrough. “Nothing” isn’t nothing. It isn’t nothing. It’s something. Bill Denbrough is something. Not nothing. Something. Something bad. Something disgusting. Something disgraceful.

Bill.

Fuck I’m--

There’s a knock on the door. “Stan?” What the hell do I say? Can I speak? I have vocal chords. Do they work? No. Shit, am I crying? My face is wet. I touch my cheek and my fingers come away wet. There’s no blood. How sad is it that I was expecting my hand to be red? Pretty sad by the standards of any normal person, I’d assume.

Oh god.

“H-hey, can I come in?” Can he come in? Should he come in? He should not come in here. But the door is already cracking open and Bill’s poking his head in. “Shit.” 

No no no. he isn’t supposed to see this. He isn’t supposed to be here. No one is supposed to know. Not Eddie, not Richie, not Bev, not anyone. Definitely not Bill. And he’s staring. He’s staring at my arms. Shit. I grab at my sleeves and yank them down far past the tips of my fingers. There’s going to be blood stuck to the inside of this sweater. Fuck. “I-- uh i-it’s not--” There’s a window that leads to the back yard. I could jump out of that. I’d have to seed Mrs. Denbrough but it would be worth it. God knows I’m never going to see Bill again after this. Whether that will be his doing or mine, I’m not sure yet.

“It’s okay,” He whispers, from across the room. No it isn’t. Nothing is okay. God, I can’t breathe. It’s only okay from all the way over there. Over here  _ nothing is okay _ .

Bill’s got the door nearly closed behind him and he’s just looking at me. The concern in his look is going to make me sick. It’s so entwined with something too close to pity. I don’t want his concern. I don’t want his pity. I don’t need it. I don’t need him.

Except I do. And that just makes it all worse.

Exactly what I’ve wanted for so long is staring me right in the eyes. Countless nights spent sobbing, in pain, on the floor of my bedroom all alone imagining being held by Bill. Imagining his warm hands pressed against my neck and face and arms and back. The smell of dark chocolate and ink overpowering the burning and screaming. 

I never let myself think anything more. Only on the bad nights. Never for long. Just long enough to pull myself back from the edge. Because I’m a sick freak. Because I need him so damn much.

“Stan…” He never stutters when he says my name. I love it when he says my name. He’s always so gentle and careful. So sweet. So perfect. So beautiful.

Fuck.

That’s not okay, Stan. I need to knock this out. Stop being a  _ freak _ .

But Bill’s closing the door all the way behind him and coming over to wear I’ve tucked myself into the corner of the bathtub. He’s looking at me. He’s looking at me right in the eyes and there’s something in his look about which I don’t dare let myself think.

If he gets any closer I’m going to lose my mind. I’ll do something stupid. Bill will never forgive me. I can’t look at him. I can’t watch him get closer--- can’t watch my wildest dream draw closer and closer only to ultimately pass me by as a “that’s what friends do!” I bury my head in my hands and pull my knees up to my chest.

Everything hurts so much.

And it only gets worse when I feel Bill’s hand on my shoulder.

I can’t help it now. I was doing my best to calm my crying and keep quiet but I can’t do it. He’s too close and now he’s touching me. My sobs come out loud and almost inhuman.

Bill takes his hand off my shoulder suddenly, startled by my crying. “Shit, uh, s-s-sorry. Uh, can I t-touch you?” Yes. Always. His hands are warm and steady and I never want to lose the contact. But allowing him to touch me leads him further down the path of my fucked up life. If I let him pull me out of this like I’ve so often dreamed I’m inevitably going to end up pushing him away once he realizes how sick I am.

I don’t know anything anymore. Every option is going to break me. Losing Bill--- the Losers--- is going to kill me. But I’m already gone. There’s no coming back after this. Bill will tell the other Losers and they’ll all leave me. Even Eddie and Richie.

I don’t know what to tell Bill. Nothing is the right choice.

If I tell him no then maybe I can salvage our friendship. Maybe. But that’s stupid. There will be no salvaging because he’s already seen far too much. Maybe just this once I could take advantage. He’s offering and this is the last time I’ll ever get to be so close to Bill. It’s selfish but he’s right here and I need him so bad. I can feel his warmth right in front of me. I’m not going to get this again.

“Please.” My voice is foggy and strained, plagued by hiccups and tears, but Bill doesn’t say anything about my disgraceful display of weakness, just moves to my side and wraps both his arms around my shoulders and pulls me to him. I lean into him and bury my head in his chest, my hands falling away from my face to rest between my knees and my chest.

I hate myself so damn much. I’m too weak to take care of myself so I pin all of this on Bill. Disgusting. And I know it yet I keep crying into his shirt. I keep letting him hold me while sobs wrack my body, making me shake uncontrollably. I should pull away and pretend none of this happened.

Pretend I’m fine.

Pretend my arms aren’t all sorts of fucked.

Pretend I’m not in love with my best friend.

I should run away and never come back. The Losers would all be better off without me. Bill would be better off without me. None of them deserve this. I thought I was hiding it well enough but now Bill knows. He saw my arms and he’s holding me while I cry. He’ll be polite and let me cry but he’ll run and tell everyone as soon as this is over. And I don’t blame him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: panic attacks and mentions of s*lf h*rm

I don’t want the last thing for which they all remember me to be this. Bill has every right to tell them but I don’t want this to be it. I love them all so damn much. Time spent with the Losers is everything to me. They’re everything I have. I hate them but I love them. My life has been because of the Losers. They’re more my family at this point than anyone else. I’ve loved them with everything for so long and even if that love is also disturbed and hideous it’s been true.

I don’t want them to see my love for what it really is--- toxic.

“Please d-don’t tell the rest of the L-losers,” I say. My voice is muffled from layers of tears, panic, and the T-shirt Bill’s wearing. I’m not aware I spoke for a moment before I feel my mouth shut.

Bill’s got one of his hands on my knee and the other on my back rubbing slow, small circles. My head is resting on his chest--- I can feel the way his breathing is deep and even but forced. His heart is pounding against his ribs but his breathing is slow--- I think my own breathing is slowing to match his. My pulse is still rushing and I can’t stop crying but my breathing is getting easier.

For a moment I don’t think he hears me. His movements don’t stop and he doesn’t speak. I don’t dare pull away to look at him--- my ass hurts from sitting on the tile for so long and my arms are beginning to ache--- for fear of ruining the moment. It’s not exactly a good moment but it’s the closest I’ve been to Bill in so long. This is the closest I’ve been to anyone in so long--- not including Richie being a dick and trying to hug me because he was covered in mud. Bill’s warm and steady and sure. This isn’t just another one of my made up scenarios in which Bill saves me from myself. He’s real and his arms are real and his breathing is real and his heart is real.

I’ve been falling and stumbling for so fucking long and now I’ve fallen right into Bill who didn’t even flinch catching me.

He shushes me before speaking. “D-don’t worry. We c-can talk more s-s-soon.” Is he just buying himself time so he can work out how to tell me that he’s going to tell everyone? I don’t want to believe he would do that but I’ve never exactly seen Bill in this sort of situation. I’m not Eddie, his best friend. I’m not Georgie, his family. Just Stan. “It’s okay. Soon, Stanny.”

Did he not hear me? Did he  _ mis _ hear me? We need to talk now. Now is the only time we have. Soon isn’t real. The world is on fire and we’re both burning. I start to pull away and tell him as much but he only puts a hand on my cheek and brings me closer to him, repeating that everything’s okay and we can talk later. “Bill--”

“It’s okay, Stan. When you’re c-calmer we can t-t-talk.” Calmer? I am fucking calm. This is calm for someone who has accepted their entire world is about to end--- maybe even everyone’s worlds. I am calm. He is insane. I am fine.

I will the indignation from my voice, though, forcing myself to focus on his hand on my face to keep myself from getting angry. I’m not angry. But I don’t like to be thought of as  _ not calm _ .“...Please don’t tell them, Bill.” 

He wraps his arms around me tighter and positions my head so he can keep his chin over it. I want to push away and make him promise me he won’t tell but his breathing and heartbeat are  _ right here _ . His arms are around me and his head is on mine.

He’s going to do whatever he wants and I’m too weak to move but that doesn’t mean I can’t beg. I’m at a real low right now, anyway. I might as well plead from this position. At least I can’t see him and I don’t think he can really see me. “Please, Bill--”

“Stan, it’s okay.” His hands are still moving, spreading warmth to skin that hasn’t felt real warmth--- warmth from touches that mean something, that are real and loving, not just there to smother the tingling after ripping apart skin--- in months. He’s got his head on mine, keeping me tucked under his chin. I don’t know if I should feel safe or trapped. I trust Bill and he says it’s okay but this is new. This isn’t Bill telling me everything’s okay after a bad grade. I want to feel safe. I want to completely melt into Bill and let him protect me and tell me everything's okay and have it really be okay. “I’ve g-got you, Stan.”

_ He’s got me. _ That gets me to abandon all efforts of convincing him for now. Just the idea that he’s making that decision… I’ll regret this later, no doubt.

My name keeps being said and I know it’s my name but it makes me dizzy. Bill keeps saying my name and every time it sounds like he’s just a little closer to tears. With each repeat of my name his grip on me tightens. I’m being held against Bill. He keeps whispering that everything’s okay and that he’s got me. I’m only partly there. Some of me is still being held and crying and shaking and shattering with every promise from Bill but there’s a part of me that’s floating off to the side--- watching what’s going on through closed eyes, numb to everything.

We sit on the bathroom floor for what feels like hours--- though is probably more like twenty minutes. Bill’s hands traveling from my back to my hair to my knees to my cheek to my neck is making my head spin. The smell of ink that seems to have ingrained itself into every one of Bill’s shirts--- possibly even just Bill himself--- is cool and sweet while the leftover anxiety simmers down under my skin. I could sit here forever. Anxiety is still making my heart pump faster than it should and the occasional rush of panic makes my eyes sting with the threat of fresh tears but sitting here in silence with Bill is better than having to face him telling me to get out and never come back.

I keep looking for any excuse to keep my face pressed against Bill’s shirt. No good ones come to mind. Only selfish reasons like being scared of rejection. If he isn’t pushing me away yet I might as well soak this up while I still can.

His shirt must be soaked through from my tears. My skin is burning from the salt water on my already too dry cheeks but the cotton of Bill’s baseball T is soft and dulls the pain. I can’t imagine this is comfortable for him. Physically nor emotionally. The tiles are cold and hard, I’m sitting half on him riding out the aftershocks of a panic attack, and he’s definitely straining supporting me--- I don’t have enough strength to support myself at this point. His arms must be tired by now. And his hands. The shapes he’s been rubbing into my skin haven’t stopped for longer than a few seconds since he started them. Not to mention that he absolutely knows how fucked I am by now. 

Stupid, Stanley. I wasn’t supposed to let him know any of this.

Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid _ .

“Stanny?” My breathing stops all together, my eyes pinching closed painfully. I guess this is it. He’s had enough of me. I force myself to resume breathing and try to inhale as much as I can--- which isn’t much since my lungs are still crushed--- just to remember the smell of happiness. God, I am a sap. Well, I’m being exiled now anyway so what’s the harm?

I push myself away from Bill and rub my eyes--- he lets me this time but keeps one of his hands resting on my leg. “Sorry,” I say, looking at Bill for the first time. His eyes are red and he’s still chewing his lip. His hair is messed up in the back from being pressed against the wall. So many emotions are fighting for dominance in his eyes. He looks wrecked. I hate that I did that. “I’ll go now.”

I start to push myself up from the floor but Bill grabs my wrist.

“Fuck, s-s-sorry,” He says when I drop back to the floor, tugging my arm away from him. I trust him, I do. He grabbed my right arm, my perfectly fine arm, it’s just a reaction at this point. Anyone gets close to touching my arms and I recoil--- I’m usually better at playing it off, though. “I just… I--” He’s struggling to find his words, running his hands through his hair, sighing heavily before continuing, “Stay? Here? W-with me?”

I should leave. Spending more time will only make the rejection worse. I won’t be able to leave. I won’t be able to cope. I can’t do this. The door is closed but I could get out fast enough without too much hassle. Instinctively, I back away just slightly, stiffening, readying myself to run if I need to.

But Bill is looking at me. He’s moving toward me, a hand outstretched in a show of peace. He’s asking me to stay with him. Who am I to deny Bill what he wants?

“Okay.” 

“D-do you want to go b-back to my r-room?” Shrug. Anything he wants. “O-okay. Well, it is more c-c-comfortable so…” He trails off and looks at me. Am I supposed to answer now?

“Okay.” The creases between his eyebrows disappear with my answer and he smiles at me. It’s a small smile but it’s there. His ears lift and his nose scrunches up. Fuck it I’m so gone for this boy.

Bill stands up, using the sink for leverage. His legs shudder as he stands but he shakes them a little and they seem fine. He looks back down at me and reaches out a hand. I shouldn’t let him help me anymore than I already have. I can stand on my own. I think. But he’s also here, offering to support me, with his smooth skin and steady touch...

I take his hand and let him help pull me up. His hands are shaking--- mine are too. My legs feel weak and staticy. I stumble as soon as I try to walk but Bill is there. He gives me a small smile before wrapping an arm around my waist. I let him.

He leads me back to his room and closes the door behind us. The room is spinning just a little and everything seems to be moving in slow motion. The birds flying by out the window, the sun moving across the sky, even all the dust particles floating across the room. Once Bill helps me over to his bed, however, he immediately starts moving twice as fast--- my brain almost short circuits from the suddenly very different speed of the world.

“A-a-are you good there?” He’s standing in front of me, fidgeting and looking around like there’s something in here that will solve all the problems.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I’m sitting on the bed just trying to get the muscles in my jaw to work.

“Do you need water?” 

“I’m okay.”

“I’ll g-get you s-some water.”

“No, Bill, it’s fine. Really.”

He had started to leave but turned back to me. “You’ve been c-crying. You’re dehy-hydrated.” He reaches his hand out and brushes his thumb over my cheeks. A few stray tears are wiped away. The tenderness of it startles me. I think Bill startles himself as well because he takes his hand away and starts muttering to himself.

I’m too exhausted to even bother overthinking. The panic attack is over but everything feels so sluggish. My head is floating while my body is pushed every back and forth in a pool of ugly, gray sludge.

“I’m g-gonna get you s-s-some water.” I nod, not caring enough to fight him anymore. I don’t remember the last time I had water, anyway. Bill is fidgety, making small jerky movements that are going too quickly for me to really catch. He leans forward suddenly and presses his lips to my forehead. It’s a short, awkward kiss. If I were more aware of myself I might have done something other than stare as Bill pulled away all flustered and mumbling.

“Shit. Sorry. Uh… Yeah.” His cheeks are bright red and his hands are messing with the hem of his shirt. He turns around suddenly and leaves the room muttering “water” over and over.

Did Bill just kiss my forehead?

Certainly not. I must just be so out of it that I’m imagining things.

Good lord, I am exhausted. My out of body state wears off then, letting the fatigue hit me light a freight train. I scoot myself back towards the wall--- when Bill comes back he won’t have to climb over me for a place to sit--- and up towards his pillow. Surely, Bill won’t mind if I just rest my head for a bit. It won’t be long. Just until he comes back from wherever he went.


	5. Chapter 5

I wake up to feel the sun in my eyes. The room is getting darker--- I don’t like saying the world is getting darker at this time; it isn’t really getting darker, just showing off the different colors the world has to offer as a sort of magical peace offering for any small injustices of the day--- and the sun is setting, making its way down the horizon. Bill’s window is open so that there’s at least some fresh air moving through the room.

I’m facing the wall now. I fell asleep facing the door so that I would wake up when Bill got back. That way he wouldn’t have to sit awkwardly while I slept until he could kick me out. Guess he did have to, though. If I woke up at all when Bill returned I do not remember. The amount of noise Bill makes coming up the stairs on a regular basis is absurd and generally enough to wake all the Losers--- Bev and Richie get rather upset with Bill over this.

But I couldn’t have been out for too long. The sun was just starting to go down when I fell asleep and it’s still mostly up now. The sky is turning a crisp orange, coloring the clouds with hints of pink. The few times I’ve snuck out with Bill to go down to the quarry for the sunset have been beautiful. Floating in the water with the boy you love with the sky drifts along sleepily in a show of softly humming colors is something so… intoxicating.

My head is being cushioned by something soft. Bill’s got a mountain of pillows and blankets on his bed at all times. One real pillow in an actual pillow case and the rest are just decorative but we still use them. Richie likes the green pillow--- he claims it’s blue but he’s an idiot--- shaped like a heart. Eddie steals the real pillow from Bill every time. Bill never says anything about it. I always use my arms as a pillow or bring my own when we have sleepovers. Bill knows that’s just for show, though. When we’re alone he always lets me have the fluffy pink one. It’s a stupid looking--- a lopsided circle with pink that sheds everywhere--- pillow Bill’s had for years. His mother gave it to him as a Christmas gift long ago. It’s comfy, though. And now it’s under my head--- even though I definitely did not fall asleep with it.

Just like I most definitely did not fall asleep with a blanket over me. I was still too hot for a blanket or any covers. But now, I’m curled up with the fuzzy grey blanket with the poorly drawn soccer balls Richie bought Bill as a gag gift clutched in my fists. The underside is padded in wool. It’s rather nice.

What’s nicer, though, is the weight around my waist. And the firm press of Bill’s chest against my back. He’s got his nose pressed into the back of my neck, tilted just enough so that when he breathes I can feel his breath against my ear. Mouthbreather.

He’s got an arm slung over my waist and the other is stretched out under my neck. His legs are intertwined with my own, one of his snaking under my leg and pulling me closer. Just like the movies. Movies always looked ridiculous when two people were cuddling--- are we cuddling? does it count as cuddling if one of us is absolutely, completely straight?--- but I can’t say this isn’t incredibly comfortable. I’m warm and happier than I’ve been in some time. There’s a beautiful boy with his face pressed against my neck, his chest against my back, his skin against mine.

Holy shit.

There’s a  _ boy _ sleeping behind me. Cuddling me.

_ Bill  _ is cuddling me.

My shifting must have alerted Bill because he starts to stir behind me, stretching his arms and legs just enough so they shake, and yawning against my neck. I can’t help the goosebumps that make their way across my body but I sure as fuck can hate them.

I feel his nose nuzzle into the back of my head and I swear I’ve never lost control of so many different muscles all at once. “You awake, Stanny?” His voice is thick with sleep, filling the space between us like hot air. We’re in our own little bubble and it keeps filling up. Filling up with sticky heat like steam from the shower. Or maybe filling up with carbon monoxide.

“Yeah, I’m awake, Bill.” My voice still sounds weak. Soggy and thick with tears. 

“Good.” He presses me against him once again before pulling away and sitting up. The bed shifts with his weight, rolling me over and towards him. I watch him rub his eyes and stretch his neck. I’m so weak for him. He looks back down at me and smiles. He’s awfully full of smiles for someone who’s about to lose a best friend--- he can’t be looking forward to this, can he?--- “Can you s-sit up?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say and push myself up on my elbows. My head feels fuzzy and too full of air. Like I’ve been sucking on a can of whipped cream again (Richie’s idea, not mine). Moving makes my head pound. I have to close my eyes to keep myself from falling right back down into the pillows. When I open them again Bill is watching me with another small smile on his lips. I can’t bring myself to smile so I just stare down at my hands, pulling my sleeves down again--- which hurts like a bitch. All the dried up blood from my scratching earlier had gotten stuck to the inside of my sweater. 

“How are they?” If I play dumb he might think he was mistaken. He didn’t really see anything in the bathroom; I shake my head in mock confusion. “Your arms? They were bleeding.” So he is sure of what he saw. No salvaging our friendship. It’s too late.

“I’m sorry--”

“You don’t n-need to apolog-gize,” He says. That’s bullshit. Unless he means I don’t need to apologize because it’s too late at this point.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll just go--” I start to get up but Bill puts his hand out to stop me.

“Wait, what? W-w-why are you g-going?”

“Bill, come on.”

“Why?”

“Bill, stop.”

“No, Stan, you s-s-stop.” He looked so peaceful before. Still half asleep, hair all messed up and shirt riding up as he stretched more. Now he’s back to being worried and panicked. “Why are y-you leaving?”

I don’t want to look at him. “Bill--”

“Tell me.”

“I--”

“No excuses, Stan.”

“I’m not making--”

“You’re going t-to! I can already t-tell--”

“Would you stop interrupting me?” Bill already had his mouth open to say something else but he shuts it. “Thanks.” Do I tell him? Just give up and admit to it all? I’ve already cried into his chest and fallen asleep in his bed, is now really the time to be picky about my dignity? “Look, just… Don’t tell the Losers, alright? I won’t bother you anymore but please don’t tell the rest of them.” I can’t bring myself to look up at him. I’m sure if I could I would see a sneer or something because of course he’s going to tell the Losers. I know that’s ridiculous to think because Bill is the sweetest person alive, just… I don’t know.

“What do you mean you w-won’t bother me anym-m-more?”

What does he think I mean? “I mean I won’t stick around. I’ll leave you be.” Is he just being cruel and making me spell it out? No. Bill isn’t cruel. I don’t know what his angle is here, though.

“Stan, what?” I won’t look at him. He wants a full explanation? Fine. I’ll give him that but I don’t have to look him in the eyes.

“I’m a disgusting freak, right?”

“Stan--”

“No interruptions. You want an explanation and I’m giving you one so just let me talk.” He doesn’t object. “Right. So, I’m a disgusting freak.” I can tell he’s shifting around on the bed. He’s moving closer to me. I don’t understand him. “And I know you all will be better off without me so I’ll leave you alone. I didn’t mean for anyone to find out about any of it, I swear I didn’t, but you did and now you know so I won’t keep trying to pretend and you won’t have to pretend to be comfortable around me. I’ll leave. I promise I will.

“Just please don’t tell the rest of the Losers, Bill. I don’t want them to think of me like this. I’m sorry I’ve dumped all this on you now but I can’t stand the thought of everyone I love seeing me for who I really am,” The scratching starts again. I can’t help it. It just  _ aches _ so much. “I hate it enough that  _ you _ know this but I just can’t fucking live with the thought of everyone else knowing, too,” The stinging of tears flowing down my face is only making the pain in my arms worse. “I mean, you guys are the only people I’ve ever loved, Bill, and I don’t want that to go away. I don’t want that to be all tainted and gross just because of--”

“Stan.” He’s grabbing my hands and I’m crying. I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see how right I am written across Bill’s face. I can’t handle that.

“I’m so sorry, Big Bill. I can’t--”

“Shh, it’s okay, Stanny.” He’s got his arms around me again. He pulled my hands off my arms but I can feel the blood dripping down. “Don’t w-worry, it’s okay.” I want it to be okay. I want it to be okay so badly. I want Bill to be hugging me because our friendship is fine and he doesn’t hate me as much as I hate myself but I know that’s just wishful thinking. I know his hand on the back of my head is just polite. I know his head pressed against the top of mine is just an awkward angle.

“N-no, Bill. It’s-- Nothing’s--”

He’s pulling me closer, letting me cry, letting me hold onto his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping me here. He’s pulling my legs back onto the bed so I’m curled up in his lap, my face against his neck. He’s holding me while I cry and whispering words--- I can’t understand a thing he’s saying--- in my ear. He’s running his fingers through my hair and up and down my back.

He’s making me fall so much deeper in love with him.

“Let’s not talk right now, yeah?” I can feel his nose pressing right above my ear. “W-we can  _ talk  _ later. When you f-feel better.” I nod. I don’t really want to talk anymore but I do want this to just be done. Rip off the bandaids--- rainbow. make it a triple pun--- but if he wants me to leave now and come back later so be it. “Do you want to watch someth-thing? We can p-p-pick out a movie?”

I sniffle, “You don’t want me to leave?”

“No. I don’t want y-y-you to go h-home feeling like this.” Oh. “S-so you can call h-home and I’ll get th-the TV, okay?” I nod. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with Bill for as long as I can.

Bill presses another kiss to my forehead, this time much less flustered and more sure of himself, before scooting us both off the bed. He holds out his hand to me, offering even more help. He wants me here so I might as well.

“Thanks.” My legs don’t hurt as much as they did before and my head isn’t so gross. My arms, however… “Hey, uh, Bill?”

“Y-yeah?”

“I’m sorry. It’s nothing.” How am I supposed to tell him I scratched my arms open and they’re bleeding again? He saw them earlier but if he managed to forget I don’t want to remind him. “Nevermind, sorry.”

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Damn him for being so gentle.

“It’s just, uh--” I nod down at my arms, hoping he’ll get the message. He does not. “My, uh-- my... arms? They’re--”

“Shit, r-r-right.” Bill comes back over to me and pushes me back onto the bed. “Wait here.” I sit on the edge of the mattress with my hands in my lap, watching Bill scurry about his room. He’s digging through his closet, looking for I don’t know what. 

The sky is getting darker quickly. I wonder if the other Losers made their own ways home or if they’re all still together at someone’s house.

Bill returns to my side with a sweater. “H-here.” He’s a got a stupid smile on his face as he pushes the sweater towards me. It doesn’t look like it’s been worn much--- Bill runs hot; he says he’ll have a heat stroke if he wears a sweater--- but it’s cleaner than my own sweater so I take it.

“Thanks, Bill.” I put the sweater down on my lap, unsure of what to do now.

“I’m gonna go g-get some bandages and s-s-stuff. You c-can change out of your sw-sweater and wear that one,” He says. I nod and he leaves for the bathroom.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another kind of soft chapter!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: cleaning up blood and s*lf h*rm wounds

Bill’s sweater is... very Bill to say the least. It’s quite oversized and quite blue. Too bright of a color. To make it worse there’s pink and yellow abstract art around the entirety of the cloth. It looks like something Richie would buy as a joke but something Bill would buy simply because he thought it was nice. Still, it’s big enough to be comfortable and it does smell like Bill. Heavier on the smell of chocolate than ink but that’s okay. It’s still Bill. So I change out of my sufficiently ruined bird sweater and into Bill’s new one.

It isn’t long before Bill’s knocking on the door to make sure I’ve changed--- “I can find a d-d-different sweater if you d-don’t like that one.” But it’s fine. I do like this one. I don’t tell him why I like it, though. Not pushing my luck here.

When he walks back into the room he’s got his arms full of bandages and bottles of disinfectant. I don’t know if he’s ever properly disinfected a wound before--- we all leave that to our resident doctor: Dr. K.

“What’s all this?” I ask.

“Oh, um, dis-disinfectant?” He looks down at everything he dropped on the carpet then back at me. “And bandages? I don’t really know.” He’s separating what he found in the bathroom into what seems to be three piles: bandaids and cotton balls, bandages, cleaning liquid. “Sh-should I not have b-b-brought all this?” He thinks I know. I really don’t. I gave up trying to keep them clean a long time ago. Sometimes, if I’m worried, I’ll slather some neosporin on and call it a night.

I used to take the time to clean up after every time but it just got repetitive. Nothing’s gotten infected yet. I lather soap on my hands in the shower and wipe away whatever blood I see and actually manage to find the effort to wipe it away. It’s not like I care enough about myself to worry, anyway. The most concerning thing about one of them getting infected would be my parents finding out, but, like I said, it hasn’t happened and I’m too lazy to give a shit.

“Uh, no. It’s fine.” I guess it’s fine. It looks fine. It’s definitely a lot more than my family even owns.

“Oh, good.” He smiles at me hesitantly. He sure does smile a lot. He didn’t smile much for a while after Georgie and everything. But today he doesn’t seem to stop for longer than a few minutes. Part of me thinks that’s just on my behalf. “Can I?” 

I nod but don’t move to roll up my sleeves. He’s trying to help and I should let him. He wants to help. It’ll be fine. He hasn’t kicked me out yet. “I--” I don’t know. This is not normal. Having your best friend, with whom you are pathetically in love, clean the blood off your arms because you’re a fucked up weirdo? Nothing about this is okay.

“Stanny?” He’s still looking up at me. One of his hands is on my knee. He’s really close. “It’s okay. I p-promise.” Bill doesn’t lie to me. He wouldn’t make me a promise he won’t keep. I can trust Bill.

“Okay.” So I roll up my sleeves and close my eyes. I don’t want to see his face when he gets an actual look at them. I almost move to cover my ears even but Bill puts a hand on my arm when he sees me flinch away.

“I told y-you it’d be o-okay.” I open my eyes again. He doesn’t look upset or angry. He didn’t even make any noise. Maybe he’s just hiding it. I can’t say I’d blame him. He’s just being a good friend by helping me.

He picks up a cotton ball and a brown bottle. “My m-mom used to put this on G-g-georgie.” The same bottle is sitting in the bathroom closet at my house so I recognize it: Hydrogen Peroxide. I don’t remember the last time I used that. It burns too much. It used to feel good but after a while I got tired of the itching it also caused.

Bill uncaps the bottle and tips it onto the cotton ball, letting some of the liquid pour out. The smell is repulsive. It’s almost metallic, sticking the back of your throat. I want to tell Bill not to worry about this. I’m fine. I always have been. But he looks determined.

“I’m going t-to put this o-o-n now.” I just nod, preparing myself for the inevitable sting. The cotton ball is cold against my skin and for just a second and the chemical is almost soothing. Then the sizzling starts and all the soothing aspects of the liquid go flying out the window. Once again I flinch, startling Bill. He offers a small apology but doesn’t stop trying to wipe away the dried blood. He keeps a hand on my elbow to keep me from squirming around.

The light from the window keeps catching on his hair. It’s all dry now. Shiny, like I like it. When he’s focused it falls in front of his eyes and he shakes his head to get it out of the way. Richie jokes that he’s going to buy Bill some clips one day for his hair. Eddie thinks Bill should just cut it. 

Bev and I agree that his hair looks nice longer. Of course, we have the same opinion for different reasons. Bev kissed Bill when we were younger. She used to like him. She and Bill like, or at least used to like, each other. Bev liked Bill like she likes Ben. In the way that she has secret smiles for them. In the way that she reaches out to brush the hair out of their faces, letting her fingers linger longer than necessary. Bev likes boys. I just think Bill’s amazing and he’s my best friend. I don’t brush his hair out of his face--- because I have self control, not that I don’t want to--- and I try not to have a different smile for Bill. I mean, yeah, when I smile at Mike or Ben or Richie or Eddie it’s never something I try to wipe off my face seconds later so no one else sees like I do with Bill but that’s just situational. None of the other Losers make my heart speed up. Bill just happens to.

Maybe I am in love with him. Like Richie loves Eddie.

But that doesn’t make me...

His eyes are beautiful, too. Especially in the sun. They go from a deep blue to the color of the ocean. There’s something so dark lurking under the surface but it only makes him all that much more beautiful. Everything he keeps locked down in a far corner of his mind shows up in the sun. But not really. Just the outlines, the shadows. The rest--- the happiest memories and brightest smiles--- are highlighted, standing out as bright streaks in his eyes.

Everything about him just sparkles in the sun. His skin, porcelain white, with freckles like spots on a Speckled Tanager, reflects the sunlight perfectly. He isn’t like Richie who somehow manages to refract all the light and burn everyone’s eyes, nor like me who’s too pale for his own good. Bill shines. The light bends around him, making his own personal spotlight wherever he goes.

He’s so perfect. I never want to look away. Maybe this is how he and Ben feel about Beverly. I admit, she is attractive, but a solid look is enough to get the picture. Her hair is a nice red, her eyes a pretty shade of green. Ben can’t keep his eyes off her and neither can Bill. It’s like they’re stuck whenever she’s around. I can’t imagine that, really. Not with Bev. Maybe that’s just because she’s basically my sister at this point--- she floats between houses most nights, often at mine since Richie is an asshole and I’m the only other Loser with a tree right outside the window. Then again, Bev and I are as close as any of the other Losers and Ben and Bill still can’t stop looking.

Maybe it really is just because she’s practically my sister. If she wasn’t a Loser and we didn’t spend half our nights together talking about school and gossiping over a smoke maybe I wouldn’t be able to look away. If she hadn’t confided in me so many times--- talking about Bill and more recently Ben--- then I’m sure I’d be as stricken by her as Bill and Ben.

Eddie, Richie, and Mike all seem to feel the same about Beverly. A good look is enough to get the picture. I never look up to see the other three staring at Bev. Mike rarely looks up from whatever book he’s got in his lap, anyway, and Eddie and Richie are more often than not fighting or making faces at each other. I see Richie staring at Eddie more than I see him even looking at Beverly.

So it isn’t just me. It’s gotta be Bev. Any other girl could catch my eye. Maybe not long enough for me to want to  _ stare _ but it would be there. Like the girl who sits two rows up from me in English. She’s cute. The other boys in class like her lots. 

...I’m a fool if I keep saying it’s just Bev and finding a different girl to say I like. I keep saying dumb shit. That the only reason Beverly isn’t striking is because I love her like a sister. That I’ll find a girl away from whom I never want to look one day. I know that isn’t true. Because I’ve already found someone I never tire of seeing. He just isn’t a girl.

I think Richie looks at Eddie like that. And Eddie looks at Richie like that when he isn’t looking. They look at each other like they each hung their own personal moon and stars. They’re both idiots. But at least they’re idiots who aren’t trying to kid themselves anymore. 

I mean, what’s so bad about this? Bill is kind. He’s helping me. He cares about me. He’s beautiful. This is the same love as everything else, isn’t it? It doesn’t really feel broken. It only feels bad when I think too hard.

I don’t have to think with Bill, though. Everything with Bill is easy--- or easier than it would be with anyone else. He doesn’t think too hard about things. Maybe that’s because he can admit to himself that he likes girls without hating himself.

I do like girls, don’t I? I think I do. They’re pretty sometimes. Beverly has nice hair and nice eyes. It’s just that, well, Bill’s hair and eyes are prettier. Why would I bother spending time looking at someone I don’t think is stunning when I could be looking at someone who is unlike anyone else? That’s all it is. Bill’s attractiveness is just so startling that I can’t look away. It’s not like I want to kiss him or anything. Love doesn’t have to be like that. I love Bev and I don’t want to kiss her. I love Rich--- though I won’t tell him that--- and I definitely don’t want to kiss him.

The problem is, when Bill is smiling at me or laughing or splashing around in the water or focused on his writing or, more recently, breathing softly against the back of my neck I do want to kiss him. I think. 

No. I really want to kiss him.

That doesn’t mean I don’t like girls, though. I just like Bill. Bill is an exception. And a bad exception at that. I only rarely want to kiss him. I always want to be touching him but friends do that. Ben and Mike touch each other sometimes. Friendly. So, I don’t like boys. I like  _ boy. _ Bill. And girls. I think. But I don’t have more time to think because Bill is leaning back on his heels and saying something.

“Oh, sorry, what?” I ask, shaking my head a little as if this will help clear out my previous train of thought.

He laughs and starts rolling down the sleeves of the sweater over the bandages he’s wrapped around my arms--- I didn’t even notice anything he had done. “Nothing, really--” all the extra bandages and cleaning supplies are piled up at the foot of the bed, “just that your eyes look amazing with that sweater.” 

I can feel my breath hitching and my face heating up. I can see a smile in his eyes but his mouth is pressed into a thin line. His hands are resting on mine, lightly toying with my fingers, though I don’t think he realizes what he’s doing.

The sun is reflecting in his eyes--- there are those shadows--- 

Yeah. I  _ really _ want to kiss him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no warnings for this one!

I make my way down to the living room with Bill. I phone my house and get the machine--- “Uris residence, please leave a message!” in my mother’s falsely cheery tone. I leave a short message with as few details as I can swing. My parents will either rip me to shreds as soon as I get home or they won’t give a single shit. Either way, staying here is safer. As long as I’m not alone, I won’t have to interact with adults and run the risk of them noticing something.

Bill digs around behind the main TV stand for one of the portable mini TVs Georgie and he had gotten as a gift one year. When Bill’s house was a more common place to find the Losers on any given day, we’d all sit in Bill’s room and have movie marathons with these mini TVs. Bill’s house was never a hot spot for us--- the main reason we visited was right after Georgie when Bill wouldn’t even get out of bed, let alone bike anywhere--- but it was nice enough. Richie, Bill, and I used to sit and watch movies when we were younger, too. Occasionally Georgie would join us and fall asleep on Bill. We never minded having Georgie around. He was like a little brother to all of us.

I’m leaning on the arm of the loveseat, watching Bill. I offered to help but he said there wasn’t enough room back there for two people. I don’t doubt that isn’t true. Bill himself is having a difficult time fitting behind the TV. So I decided my best option was to sit back and stay out of the way.

The living room isn’t used much anymore. Mrs. Denbrough’s piano is still in front of the huge windows but she hasn’t played since before Georgie. It used to be that we could run around outside and hear her waltzing through melodies too hauntingly complex for our not yet traumatized minds. 

The TV only gets turned on while Mrs. Denbrough is cooking and wants some noise other than music or when Mr. Denbrough is relaxing and reading the paper. Bill avoids the television. He says it draws too much unwanted attention from his parents--- which is fair. I don’t touch the television set in my own home, either. 

Aside from the recliner, all the furniture has plastic on it. The arm of the seat on which I have decided to perch myself for the time being squeaks uncomfortably loudly everytime I so much as shake my leg. The recliner managed to miss Mrs. Denbrough’s plastic spree years ago by some miracle to Mr. Denbrough. Bill’s mom claimed she would find plastic for it soon enough but she hasn’t gotten around to it and it’s highly unlikely she will. The coffee table is glass with dark wood framing the outside. A family heirloom or something. It has some magazines and a fake plant--- but nothing of real substance that would suggest real people live here--- placed on the glass. They don’t move, just sit there like it’s a model home. 

All the trinkets--- birthday cards, family photos, candles that have weirdly specific names with very generic smells--- are tucked away in boxes in the basement or in drawers in Bill’s room. Should someone with no prior knowledge of anyone living here walk through the front door, they’d probably assume the house is being put up for show. Not a single item that could prove human beings live here is out on display. Even their movies are hidden away in a closet down the hall.

“Got it!” Bill crawls back out from behind the TV with the smaller TV in one hand. It’s a thick, awkward thing with a blue case that only makes it thicker and more awkward. It’s old and rarely gets used anymore but when it is used it’s a slow and painful feat to get it to play anything. Richie says the new ones work a hell of a lot better and are much smaller. Bill doesn’t really care, though. This one works well enough. We can still prop it up and watch our movies even if it takes a few reboots before it’ll play for real. 

Bill walks back to me, resting the TV and his hands on my legs. He’s awfully close. I know we were cuddling just about fifteen minutes ago, but now we’re face to face. One of us could lean in really easily and… But Bill is straight. “Y-you wanna pick the m-movie?” I shake my head. He chose last time but I don’t care what we watch. Finding a bad movie of Bill’s is difficult, anyway. His parents don’t generally watch movies so the DVDs are all Bill’s and he does, admittedly, have the best taste in movies of all the Losers. “Alright.” He takes my hand from where it was folded over my chest and drags me over to the DVD closet.

The hallway connects all the rooms of the house. The kitchen, through the arch that connects off the foyer, runs together with the dining room in an open floor plan; both of these rooms are on the other side of the wall opposite the entrance to the living room. Pictures--- very generic pictures of Bill’s family standing in a field, smiling almost frighteningly--- hang off nails in the wall. Identical black frames surround the pictures within them. It would look like a happy family decoration if three frames that had previously stored photos of Georgie weren’t still hanging on the wall, empty. Walking down the hall for the first time you wouldn't necessarily be able to place why it feels so odd, but there’s definitely something off about it all.

Something haunting the hall--- something Mr. and Mrs. Denbrough refuse to acknowledge past the occasional slip up in the form of a plural “our sons”.

“Genre?” Bill pulls the sliding doors open with one hand. The inside of the closet is a mess. DVDs are piled different ways--- backwards and forwards, horizontally and vertically. They aren’t even decently organized. You might think Bill came up with some sort of organization for them--- a confusing system only someone as brilliantly stupid as Bill could ever concoct--- but he didn’t. There is no color coding, no alphabetizing done, no common actor, no nothing. I offered to organize it for him once but he turned me down claiming he knows just where every single movie is without needing to be organized. In front of the Losers he avoids the subject of his system but he told me--- in confidence, mind you--- very late at night, after a busy day of avoiding the thought of Georgie, that he can’t get himself to take the time to just put them in order.

It went unsaid  _ why  _ he can’t get himself to do it. We both know the feeling of complete and utter numbness that runs through your limbs like liquid lead, filling you up only to dissolve every ounce of your being, your strength, your heart, leaving you a cold shell with a festering mass of destruction on the inside. Getting up and disturbing the corrosion of your essence is somehow more painful than just lying on the floor and going with it. Maybe that would make sense in a scientific sense if either of us could get past our parents. Oh well, I guess.

Even when the debilitating numb isn’t all consuming, there’s always something. A smaller, less brutal relative of the numb that just nips at the corners of your mind, making any task that isn’t absolutely necessary for the survival of humanity tedious and migraine inducing. For Richie, the thought of having to open his window to let fresh air in makes him cry. Eddie can’t take his pills. Clothing being neatly sorted and hung back on their hangers drives Bev to tears. Ben and Mike both refuse to get themselves water (sounds like a kinder punishment than the rest of us but watching two of the purest people in the world having such an internal struggle over a glass of water is painful.) I can’t get myself out of my room--- or even over to the window for some not artificial light. 

Bill can’t organize his DVDs.

I scan the shelves of movies, trying to decide if I’ve waited an appropriate amount of time to appear as though I have truly mulled over my answer before saying, “Your choice.”

Given the opportunity to back out of making a decision, every Loser will book it. Some of us make attempts to cover up how uncomfortable it’s become. Others back out as quickly as humanly possible, leaving all dignity and mental stability behind--- Richie. His frantic looks around for an escape and his fast, clunky movements coupled with his shaking laughter could be comical if we didn’t all know Richie’s sudden aversion to decisions didn’t stem from that summer.

“Uh, o-okay…” Bill’s own mild panic and uncertainty brought about by my lack of an actual response are poorly hidden--- cautious way he keeps glancing over as he skims titles with his fingers, looking for some sort of reaction from me; shifting back and forth on his heels. “How about horror?” Another smile.

We all dealt with everything in vastly different ways. When it came to horror most of us were on one side--- no need for any more of that. The Losers had gone through more than any horror movie bothered to show in a single summer. Before, we would all gather around a TV with blankets, popcorn, and pair up for the jump scares. After everything, that started to peter out. It started as Ben asking Bev if she would help him in the kitchen every few scares. Then Mike began opting out of horror films and soon enough everyone else was in agreement--- we should just stick to dramas.

Everyone else except for Richie and me. We didn’t tell the Losers for a long time. We didn’t even tell each other. The rest of us seemed too disgusted by horror that we just played along, hoping to fit in. A night of drunken antics and three chick flicks with an actor Richie claimed looked just like Jack Nicolson--- “Dude, it’s him I swear! The axe man! In the-- the hotel with the uh-- the creepy ass kid!”--- lead to our confessions. It was not Jack Nicolson. But Richie  _ swore _ it was and made us watch The Shining. We made it halfway through the film before Richie realized he had put on a horror movie, apologized profusely--- to a very drunk me who also happened to be very confused--- and confessed he still watched horror whenever he could. Without remembering why this was a big deal, I too confessed to watching horror movies on a very regular basis.

Bill and the rest of the Losers found out fairly quickly after that night. Richie made the brilliant decision to get high and try to sneak into a horror movie while everyone else went to some action film on a day out. We got caught as I tried desperately to pull Richie back to our friends but he, so stoned I had to give him my sunglasses, yelled out “STANIEL YOU ARE A WHORE FOR MY MAN GUILLERMO DEL TORO, TOO.” That nearly got us kicked out of the theater entirely. Thank god for pervy isle boys paying too much attention to Bev to care about Richie. I had managed to salvage the idea that we also hated horror when questions started pouring in by claiming Richie was high and got excited by the name Guillermo del Toro because he thought Pan’s Labyrinth was a Peter Pan spinoff--- “Fuckin’ love that movie, guys. Y’all seen David Bowie? He’s one sexy motherfucker. Hey! Just like me, right, Eds?” “First of all: get off me, you asshat. Second: my name isn’t Eds! Third: I hate you and fourth: David Bowie is in  _ Labyrinth _ , genius”--- however I was ultimetly sabatoged by how utterly stupid Richie is while high.

No one got upset with us like we had anticipated. They all nodded as I explained and Richie rambled on about David Bowie in leather pants--- “I would let him crush me” and “I mean, have you seen that  _ ass?? _ ” Even I must admit Richie isn’t completely wrong there. We did go see the action movie that day and horror movies don’t often make appearances at sleepovers but the other Losers try to watch some for us.

Often I wonder what it is about Richie and me. Why are all of our friends content to never see a horror movie ever again and yet Richie and I crave them? Scary movies don’t  _ scare _ any of us--- they upset the other Losers--- but… I don’t know. Maybe it’s all some sick fucking joke. Someone has a really messed up sense of humor. Or maybe Richie and I crave the adrenaline we’ll never be able to find outside of those sewers but can mimic with those movies to relieve some of the constant pain. Or maybe it’s some weird coping mechanism--- watch movies that reflect our suffering and our trauma as a way to control and normalize it. Or maybe we’re just sick. Or maybe there are a billion different psychoanalytical reasons as to why two teenage boys would actively seek out the production of stories that strike chords buried deep within them.

Maybe it’s just masochism.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no warnings!!

“Nah, no need for a horror film.” Bill is too kind for his own good. He may not be sending me out immediately but he doesn’t have to endure a movie that makes him uncomfortable. Not for me, for sure. Maybe for someone who deserves his love and deserves to love him. But not me. 

Instead, I suggest, “What about a rom-com?” His secret pleasure. Anything with a terrible pun in the title and cover art of two women sipping cocktails while eyeing each other over their shoulders and Bill will be throwing popcorn at the screen while booing during all the romantic conflicts. I only know this because Georgie used to be our little spy. Mike eventually got him to admit he watches trashy rom-coms like Eddie sneaks Richie in through his window every other night: habitually with a pinch of deep shame.

Next to me, Bill blushes. What a nerd. Blushes never reach up to the tips of his ears like mine do. They just lay out over his nose and cheeks, cushioning his freckles in a light pink. It isn’t even the same furious red that engulfs every inch of Ben’s skin when someone mentions New Kids On The Block. Nor the jaunty, beautiful dusting of rose that spreads over Bev’s face. Bill’s blushes are just subtle enough that they could be mistaken for a remarkably red skin tone, amplified only slightly by their positions under his freckles--- freckles! all across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks and even some that run down his neck!!--- but not enough to warrant a second glance.

“Are-- are you sure?” Offering to watch a shitty rom-com with Bill is the equivalent of offering a child the last bite of your food--- they know you’re being polite and shouldn’t jump at the opportunity but at the same time if they don’t they start shaking with anticipation.

It’s my turn to smile. “Yeah,” I say because I really am sure. Nothing else is sure as of now except that I want to watch one of Bill Denbrough’s classicy terrible rom-coms with him just because of his stupid blush, and his crooked smile. Perhaps the movie will even make him feel generous enough to keep today a little secret between just the two of us.

“Alri-right.” If I let my hands go from where I’ve been keeping them crossed over my chest I think I could brush the back of his hand. We are standing awfully close together but that’s only because the movie closet is far too small. And it’s purely my imagination running wild that makes me wonder if, maybe, he wants me to let go of my arms. It’s just a coincidence that he’s using his non-dominant hand to skim over movies while the other sways--- it’s just my head making me think I notice a tension in his hand that would only be there if he were anticipating something--- at his side.

I could stand here and agonize over whether I should drop my hands or not. Hold my breath just to make sure I don’t miss a single sound, stand painfully still so not a thing will set Bill off and remind him of where his hand currently is. But I’m also too emotionally drained and dehydrated--- I completely forgot about the water Bill said he’d get--- to move gracefully or be all too aware of myself. So, forgoing my plans to not move, I drop my hands to my sides, hitting Bill's hand on my way down.

He starts and looks over at me, a mixture of confusion and a high-strung ammusion showing in his eyes. I look back, unsure of what to do. Apologizing is my usual route when something awkward happens, but my brain seems to be lagging terribly, completely unable to force words out my mouth. I stare back at Bill until he starts to laugh, pulling a laugh out of me as well. It isn't his usual laugh--- lidded eyes, head tipped back in a limp, sluggish way while his shoulders bounce a tiny bit--- but instead the more animated version of his laugh I now only get to see on the rarest of occasions. More often than not Bill is worn down, too tired to be held down by any sanity. Not that Bill laughing like a drugged out maniac isn’t hilarious and adorable in its own right, just that when he doesn’t look exhausted from the world he looks so much freer and happier. The Losers are bonded by our mutual lack of sanity--- our bonded trauma--- but when any of us manage to revert back to healthy emotions it’s a little bit of hope that we won’t always be so fucked.

I keep laughing because Bill keeps laughing and as long as his eyes are closed I can look. Any other day I wouldn’t risk such a thing with so many lights flooding the hallway, but knowing this is my last time to see Bill laugh like this is making me stupid--- Ben would say it’s bravery, Rich would say it’s one of two things: a. stupid because stupidity gets you hurt or b. sappy; I know Richie knows this is exactly how he stares at Eddie when Eddie can’t see him. 

Whatever any of the Losers would say about my current situation aside, I think I am being stupid. There’s a very large, very prominent part of my brain that is still thoroughly convinced that Bill will kick me out and I’ll lose everything I love. That part of my brain is much louder than any other, more sensible, part. Any time a thought that maybe Bill is okay with me and won’t send me away for good shows up the bit of my brain currently running everything shuts that down rather quickly. Denies all proof and reason--- ‘no, Bill certainly did not mean to kiss my forehead earlier’ or ‘cuddling is something friends do-- But you weren’t even cuddling; you just happened to be touching’--- and I know I’m being an idiot. Logically, I know staring at Bill’s eyes to try and find all his shadows, wanting to reach out and feel how soft his hair is, even just realizing I could move a bit and our lips would connect, isn’t strictly... straight. I am aware that if Bill had any intentions to out me in multiple ways to the Losers, he would have done so already. Anything that I was dead certain would happen should have happened by now. However, while I am very aware of these facts, I still refuse to recognize them as facts.

This is a list of everything I think I know (aka Accepted Reality):

  1. Bill does not hate me for being


    1. ...appreciative of pretty boys
    2. Prone to fits of intense panic
    3. Lacking in mental stability
  1. Bill is not going to kick me out for any of the aforementioned statements
  2. Bill is not going to tell the Losers of anything I ask him to not
  3. If I ever tell the Losers, the won’t hate me either
  4. I am--- most likely--- as straight as Shakespeare’s Horatio
  5. I am in love with Bill
  6. I really want to kiss Bill



Now, here is a list of everything I know (aka Reality Only My Brain Acceptes):

  1. Bill hates me for
    1. Being a disgusting disgrace
    2. Being so sick in the mind I have intense breakdowns and hurt myself
  2. Bill is going to kick me out because he hates me
  3. Bill is going to tell everyone everywhere
  4. The Losers will hate me
  5. I am as straight as Horatio but I can fix that
  6. I just think Bill is neat
  7. I have an odd, but not troubling, fixation with Bill’s lips



There is an uncooperative child throwing a tantrum in my brain as well as a tired middle aged man trying to talk the child down. It’s rather tiring being highly self aware and not self aware at all. Ridiculous. I would have an easier time if I just had a loop of Eddie and Richie conversations playing at all times rather than the bullshit that regularly inhabits my thoughts.

Bill breaks me out of my contemplative trance by tucking a loose curl behind my ear (it bounces back and he frowns at it) and saying, “You okay over th-there, Stanny?”

Not really, no. My head hurts and I’ve come to terms with the whole Being In Love With Bill thing more in the past two (?) hours than I have in four years. Even the little voice in the back of my head that likes to tell me I’m a freak of nature has fucked off somewhere. It’s been a long, weird day and it isn’t over. 

“Yeah, I am.” 

But, the day isn’t over. Plenty of opportunity for something to click back into place so that everything will stop being so confusing and go back to normal. Or--- whether this is preferable or not--- plenty of opportunity for something entirely new to click into place…

“Good.” A smile. I should count each of Bill’s smiles. Just as proof for myself on days when he doesn’t even talk to us, he can smile. And he sure as hell can smile a lot. Bill Denbrough will be fine. “Uh, anyw-way…” He turns back to the closet and picks up a DVD--- cheap plastic he bought in bulk at the store so he could burn all his favorite movies without having to ask his parents for money to buy them--- before flashing the disc at me. “You game?”

It takes me a minute to read the title through Mike’s nearly illegible scribble--- every once in a while, after Bill goes through and burns a bunch of movies all at once, he asks the Losers to come over and help write all the titles on the discs. Ben and Richie like to make up games so we don’t lose interest and we all go along (last time Bill and Mike got hammered which certainly did not help Mike’s handwriting but it certainly did help all of our moods)--- but the words materialize soon enough.

“The Princess Bride?”

Bill bounces on his toes and replies, “Of c-course! It’s ah-a classic!”

“Yeah, no shit it’s a classic. But I seem to recall having to sit through an unbearably long conversation between you and Rich about this movie, where you both agreed it is terrible?” I wish I could say at least one of them was drunk or high or something, but I can’t. They just sat in the middle of Richie’s living room, with Maggie Tozier in the piano room and Wentworth Tozier in the kitchen, yelling about how awful the movie is. Ben finally got them to stop when Richie went so far as to accuse Cary Elwes of being a bad actor and Eddie threatened to kick him in the dick.

“Heh, about that--” Bill rubs the back of his neck, “I was s-s-sort of just going along w-with Richie cause…” He trails off, making wild hand gestures as if that’s an explanation.

It is not. “Because…?”

Bill stares at me, biting his lip again. It’s another one of his worried looks. But not worried over me, which is a nice break, but over what exactly, I couldn’t say. “It’s emb-b-barassing.”

I laugh and say, “We are well past embarrassing at this point, Bill.”

He laughs a little too and pulls the sliding door closed, twisting the wooden handle back and forth. “I dunno…” I don’t want to push him. He’s starting to twitch and move in the antsy way he does when he gets uncomfortable or nervous. “It’s ju-just that--”

“Bill? Is that you?” That’s when the downstairs hallway of the Denbrough home becomes very real again. Our setting had been getting muffled, fogged over with the haze of my post-panic attack train of thought as well as the easy conversation drifting between us, but with the intrusion of a new voice the lights gets sharper, the floor stiffer. Bill snaps out of whatever joined hallucination our brains created then, too.

He closes the door the rest of the way and hands me the disc, motioning me towards the stairs. “Y-yeah, Mom. It’s m-m-me.” I don’t move, too stunned by the abrupt change of setting to follow Bill’s instructions.

The thump of a book on the kitchen table can be heard as well as the sound of sandals slapping against the heel of Sharon Denbrough’s feet as she approaches where Bill and I are currently scrambling to clean up whatever evidence of my presence we can before I slip upstairs. My being here hasn’t created much of a disturbance at all, except for the shuffling of DVD cases cascading to the floor behind the wooden door into which Bill accidentally pushed me.

“What’s all that noise, Bill?” The faucet turns off and the clink of glass against the counter sounds along with a sigh.

“N-nothing, Mom! Just knocked over th-the DVDs a l-little!” Bill’s adult voice is different from the one he uses with the Losers. It’s higher and more focused. When he’s with us, his voice is relaxed, almost to a point that you could be convinced he’s falling asleep as he speaks.

“I thought I heard voices.” Over the years we’ve made an unspoken rule when we’re at Bill’s: if we can avoid telling Sharon and Zack that we’re here, we do. It isn’t that Bill’s parents will kick us out or anything, just that it’s far easier to avoid the awkwardly supplied parental involvement in our friendship if they don’t know Bill isn’t the only kid in the house.

“Uhhh…” Bill looks at me:  _ what should I say?  _ I shrug. Up to him. Of all the Loser’s, I’m the Denbroughs’ favorite. Richie managed to make a decent impression but I know they’ve heard him yell all sorts of profanities over the years. Eddie has a real skittish energy over here that often puts people off. Bev is a girl, Mike is black--- the way both of Bill’s parents clam up around Mike and seem to work harder to get us to leave when he’s around is evidence enough to support me--- and Ben… Maybe they like Ben more than they like me. He is better with adults and not Jewish. Alright, maybe I’m the second favorite Loser.

“Don’t say ‘uh’. It’s not polite.” The water turns back on then stops after a few seconds of Bill making faces at me as I stand still, incapable of completely understanding what he’s trying to tell me. “Is someone out there?” The clapping of her sandals picks up again, growing in volume just slightly as she nears the kitchen door.

Bill doesn’t even respond. Mrs. Denbrough steps out into the hallway, flipping on the lights as she does so. “Oh. Stanley, hi.” She smiles at me--- polite, stiff, her eyes showing not a hint of true emotion. The skin on her shoulders look raw while the skin on her chest peels in large, yellowed chunks. Her hair is tied back with a blue ribbon that matches the fabric of her dress. Her hair is more similar to Bev’s than Bill’s. Bev’s looks much softer, though, none of the sun dried, dead ends that are running all through Mrs. Denbrough’s hair.

“Hello, Mrs. Denbrough.” I smile back, just as polite and stiff. Richie’s mother insisted we call her Maggie years ago, always picking her head up from whatever she’s doing and greeting us all as we invade the Tozier house. Ben’s mother was perfectly kind, saying we could call her Arlene, though we all knew she was just being pleasant. Still, more than Mrs. Denbrough has done--- we still call her Sharon within our group just because it’s easier.

A pair of tortoise print sunglasses are being held between her newly done nails--- the same blue. She shuffles them between her hands, looking from her son to me and back to her son. “Will he be staying the night?” Bill nods, a pressed smile forced on his face. “Do you two need… any food… or something?” I often wonder if Sharon and Zack Denbrough would have more parental instincts than a pair of red crabs should Georgie have survived.

“Don’t w-worry. We’ll find s-s-stuff.”

“Okay.” She starts to turn back to the kitchen but adds, “Your stutter isn’t getting better, is it?” before fully reentering the kitchen.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no warnings!

Bill and I didn’t stand around silently like we used to when his mother or father would make a painfully awkward appearance. Instead, he rolled his eyes and took off to his room with me following right behind, holding the movie.

Now, with the movie successfully inserted into the mini TV, Bill has decided it is the best time to scavenge for food. I drank the water Bill had gotten for me once Bill settled at the end of his bed, fiddling with the electronic. The water wasn’t cold anymore, all the ice had melted away and the condensation left a ring on the wood of Bill’s nightstand. Still, the liquid was a welcome source of hydration. The sticky feeling in my mouth hadn’t felt so bad until I had the first sip of water. Then it all hit me--- how dry my lips felt, how crackly my skin was every time I moved. I wanted to ask Bill for some lotion but thought better of it.

“I’m s-sure we have someth-thing down in the pantry,” Bill’s saying. I never said no to food, I wouldn’t mind it too much now, he just assumed I would say I’m not hungry and kept talking so I couldn’t turn down the offer. I don’t mind, though. He’s rambling a little and playing with my fingers. My brain isn’t thinking too much so I’m letting myself enjoy the contact. “And you need to ea-eat, Stanny--”

I cut him off--- letting him keep talking would probably be counterproductive.“I know, Bill. As much as I would love to sit here and listen to you talk about food, I am hungry.” He stops his fiddling, squeezing the tips of my fingers slightly. It isn’t often I admit to being hungry.

“Y-yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Oka-ay--” On any other day, I couldn’t get Bill to stand up and do something in less than five minutes yet today it seems all I have to do is ask for something. He’s on his feet again, dropping my hand on the bed. “I’ll go f-find something. You can s-stay since you prob-b-bably wanna avoid M-m-mom.” I nod my agreement. I’ve had my fill of Mrs. Denbrough. “Want anything sp-specif-f-fic?”

“Anything’s fine with me,” I say. He nods and leaves me alone in his room, half running down the stairs--- I can hear his heavy footsteps making the floors creak.

I consider laying down again while I wait--- my head stopped spinning so much but keeping my eyes open with lights on is bordering on agonizing--- but don’t want to have fallen asleep by the time Bill returns so I instead swing my legs over the edge of the bed and look around.

There’s next to no light coming in through the window at this point but the overhead light casts soft shadows around the room that seem only inviting. I used to wonder what it would be like to be a shadow. An honest to god shadow. Not a metaphor for the quiet kid always getting elbowed behind the class, but a real trick of light drifting from place to place. Would it be cold? Would it be lonely? I never thought so. People leave shadows alone or they love them to bits. Humans are avoided or suffocated.

Decorations are scarce even in Bill’s bedroom. A few posters--- Elton John, Big Country, and Queen--- are tacked up to the doors of his closet. A framed painting of a Greek seascape hangs above his window. The seascape only found its way into Bill’s room because his mother insisted he have some classic decor. When the Losers first noticed the art we reacted with varying degrees of confusion. Ben and Mike were polite, asking what prompted Bill to buy something so out of character. Bev said it looked nice but looked around at the rest of us as if to say:  _ anyone else seeing this? _ I’m sure if Eddie and I hadn’t stopped Richie from making jokes, he would have said something bordering on cruel. Bill shrugged us all off and the painting remained.

I can’t say I don’t mind the art. It doesn’t belong in here by any means, but hanging above the bed of a starving art student in a crummy apartment as a testament to their goals? Yeah. I could sit and study the brush strokes and spend my time trying to decipher the code left behind by the artist. The brightly colored buildings are a harsh contrast to the ill lit sea right below. Perhaps a metaphor for a happy exterior of the painter while a brooding tempest stirs below? A miscalculation of the shade of color? Does the frame--- orange just like one of the buildings--- have anything to do with the painting itself or was it a hasty decision on the buyer’s end?

It is an interesting piece. But it doesn’t belong in Bill’s bedroom.

Here and there random scraps of paper riddled in Bill’s sleepy handwriting are scattered. Every surface in the room has bits of short stories, poems, lyrics, any wisp of an idea that Bill catches in his mind he turns into something beautiful. On the nightstand next to me four different colored post-it-notes are stuck to the top. I can’t make out the words from here nor would I try. Bill is private with his writing. If you ask, he’ll most likely show you his art but his words are something much more personal and striking. He captures life impressively on the page with graphite and color, indeed. His writing, though, doesn’t just capture life most of the time… it explains it, too.

Some day William Denbrough will be a name on New York Time’s Best Seller list. I know it.

Aside from the fragments of writing, there are three books stacked in a pile on Bill’s nightstand under the old lamp he found on the curb. The top book is easily recognized as J.D. Salinger’s  _ The Catcher In The Rye _ \--- short, classic orange horse under yellow letters. Ben and Bill have had numerous conversations about different theories in the book. Richie claims he understands what they say but we’ve had the same English class every year and it’s never been assigned reading.

The second is larger than the first. The dust cover was removed, leaving a plain black cloth binding. I can’t make out any words on the spine and I don’t want to move the top book to see the cover. Underneath is a book about equal size to the one above. This one, however, is white. On the spine the words “GUIDE TO ALL AMERICAN BIRDS” read in thick, black ink. Tail feathers of a blue jay and the head of a goldfinch wrap around from the front cover to make an appearance on the side. A library sticker is plastered right at the bottom. I got the same book out ages ago. It sounded professional but it lacked many details. Beautiful pictures of birds mid flight, catching an insect or rodent, perched on the limb of a tree in the forest distract from the pitifully under researched sections of writing. I suppose for a beginner it could be a clear cut guide to the birds one would find in their backyard. 

Is Bill a beginner? I didn’t even know he liked bird watching.

I scootch over until the books are within reach and grab the bottom book. The covers are thick and an oddly smooth texture. It’s the size of my lap, much too big to bring on a bird watching adventure. I flip open to the table of context and scan down the list, muttering the headers to myself.

“Eagles… doves… warblers…” Each section appears to be separated by birds. Seems inefficient. “Owls… Ah!” I flick through the pages until I see the first picture of a fat little bird sitting on a stump of wood with a pile of seeds spread out around it. Brown feathers adorn the top of the little creature’s head while a strip of black runs under its chin. A Boreal Chickadee. It’s a tiny thing that inhabits Canada and some of the northern states but hardly stands out compared to its brightly colored counterparts. A Boreal Chickadee’s call isn’t even all that impressive. Not lavish nor distinct to most people.

But… there’s something so stupidly loveable about those little things. They look like they’d be happy to jump right into your palm if you were willing to feed them. I can’t say they’re my favorite birds by any means, but I do love looking at pictures of them. Makes me want to wander into the forest and befriend every living ball of feathers that will let me near. I’d like to think I’d be happy like that. Birds lining my arms, oblivious to all human society and any old ties I had to people. Maybe if I brought Bill with me I’d be happy. Just birds and Bill. Crazy, but a nice thought.

Maybe Bill would want to go. Not for me but for the birds. He must be interested in the soaring beauties if he checked this book out from the library. I could lend him some of my own if he really wanted to learn--- my bird books are some of the few luxury items my folks willingly buy me. I’d even take him out bird watching with me some time. That would be a good excuse to be near him, wouldn’t it? Innocent. Just two friends looking for birds.

I continue to flip through to different sections of the book, just looking at all the birds. Not a single bit of new information is found on the pages. That’s okay, though because I’m more than happy to just study the detailed pictures of wings and beaks. Pictures are the closest I’ll ever get to holding a real bird. I can only imagine how silky their little feathers are, how warm and alive they feel when being held. Would they even nuzzle into my touch, wanting more of the love of which I am so eager to rid myself--- I’ve convinced myself that if I spend all of my love on reasonable, natural things I won’t have to love Bill anymore.

The stairs creak again, alerting me of Bill’s oncoming presence. I keep the book in my lap hoping if he sees me with it that will be an easy transition into my offer of bird watching.

Bill enters the room with a plate in each hand and two bottles under his left arm. He grins at me and holds a plate out. “We didn’t have a l-lot of non-cook-k food.” I accept the plate and the bottle of soda he also hands me. “S-s-sorry.” On each of the plastic plates Bill has arranged a clipping of purple grapes, a sleeve of crackers along with two sticks of string cheese, and on my plate, a Hershey’s Kiss, and on his are slices of a chocolate orange.

I shake my head and say, “This is perfect. Thanks, Bill.” Maybe if I were braver I would kiss his cheek. Or even just squeeze his hand. In a friend way. However, I remain a coward. I place the bird book on the side of me farthest from Bill and set the plate down on my legs. I really am hungrier than I realized.

“You found the b-book?”

“Oh, yeah. I just noticed it on your nightstand,” I say. “I didn’t know you were interested in birds. You could have asked for one of my books, I would have lent one to you. Mine are more extensive than anything at the library.” I don’t offer to let just anyone borrow my books and it appears that my subtle undertones reach Bill.

“You’d let me?”

I smile at him like he’s been smiling at me all day. “Of course I would. I trust you with books. I trust you in general, you know?” I really do. I would trust any of the Losers with my life in a heartbeat, of course I would. Bill, though… I’d never even think to recall my trust in him.

“You’re sweet, Stanny.” Those words.  _ Damn _ . Sweet? I count as sweet? Ben is sweet. I’m bitter. Bill thinks I’m sweet? That definitely makes something in me go all screwy. “Thanks for trusting me.”

We go quiet again, picking at the food on our plates and knocking elbows occasionally. It’s awkward to be sitting side by side instead of facing each other but every time Bill’s arm knocks into mine and I can feel his heat through the sweater he gave me, a shock runs through me. My arms no longer burn--- I haven’t even thought about them again since Bill bandaged them. Occasionally I’ll get caught in a less than ideal position and the skin will stretch enough to be uncomfortable.

I pick at the cheese and nibble on a few crackers. The grapes go mostly unfinished as the sweetness is messing with my head. For the same reason, I leave the Kiss in its wrapping.

“You want it?” I know Bill is a sucker for chocolate. He has self control but not much of it. It’s a rule between the seven of us that we don’t bring any chocolate to sleepovers if we don’t want Bill staring at it longingly.

“No. It’s for you.” He shakes his head and pushes my outstretched hand back.

“It’s okay, you can have it. My head hurts too much for sweet stuff,” I insist.

“Really, Stan. For you.” He looks so pleased with himself that I don’t push it more. His hands are cupping my hand that holds the chocolate kiss and Bill keeps looking at me. Am I missing something? Does he want me to eat it now? Is there some secret message? It’s just a Kiss.

“So, uh, you never really answered: are you like… into bird watching now?” Deflect from whatever I don’t understand to something I do.

The proud little smile Bill was wearing drops from his face as he shifts his focus over to his hands. His foot is bouncing on the floor. I used to think I could read Bill like a book. Today is proving me wrong in so many ways. “I mean… sort of? I-I checked it ou-out c-cause-- Like, I juh-just wanted-- You kn-kn-know like--” Maybe this wasn’t a good subject. He keeps starting over, stuttering out the beginnings of sentences before going back.

“You don’t have to--” I put a hand on his shoulder, hoping somehow it’ll help. 

He closes his mouth, sets his plate on the ground, and turns to face me before starting again. “I was h-hoping we could guh-go togeth-ther? Sometime?”

“Like… all seven of us? I don’t think Eddie would handle being around bugs that long well.” I don’t mention that I really only go bird watching by myself. I’ve made exceptions before--- when Richie starts panicking and needs an excuse to be quiet without it seeming weird; when Bev’s dad got out of control again and she wanted to be quiet with someone, looking at something beautiful--- but if it isn’t something important the Losers can be too loud. Plus, it’s special to me. I’d give anything to go bird watching with Bill alone. Having the six of them sit still and be quiet so as to not scare off the birds would be impossible.

“N-no. I kinda th-th-though it could be… just us? Y-you and m-me?” Just the two of us? Just Bill and me? Alone? Bird watching… “W-w-we don’t h-have to! I w-was just th-thinking--” Should I say something? I should. But what? The moment is passing and I’m not saying anything. _Stan!_ _Speak!_

Bill keeps rambling.

I keep gawking.

Exactly what I’ve wanted has been offered out to me on a silver fucking platter and I’m watching it be jostled away without a fight. 

What.  _ The _ . Fuck.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just them being idiots as usual
> 
> no warnings!

Finally, Bill stops dead in his tracks and sighs. A long, heavy sigh. One that releases all the energy keeping his head and shoulders up so he slumps over himself, only lifting his head to look at me when he speaks again. “This is r-r-rid-- rid-dic-culo-- Ugh!”

I don’t interrupt his stuttering. He can figure a way around whatever he’s trying to say himself. I wouldn't want people trying to finish my thoughts for me, so I don’t do that to Bill.

“I wanna guh-go with y-y-you, Stan. Not all of uh-us--- I love the Losers, I d-d-do--- but I wanna watch b-b-birds with  _ you _ . I wanna walk with  _ you.  _ I wanna s-sit and li-listen to y-you talk ab-bout birds with  _ you _ . I want to be alone with  _ you _ .” He isn’t smiling anymore. The smile disappeared somewhere between “I wanna go with you” and “I wanna watch birds with you”. His lips are pressed into a tight line, his brow furrowed.

What am I missing?

“We’re alone now, aren’t we?” I don’t dare tell him I want so desperately to be alone with him, too. He wants to be alone with me because he wants to look at the birds. I want to be alone with him because I really, really, really want to kiss him.

His eyes keep scanning my face. Is he missing something, too? “Yeah, but-- Stan, I--” He what? “Oh, Stan…” Oh, Stan?  _ Oh, Stan?  _ What in the fuck does that mean? And why did he turn away from me again? Did I do something? I messed up, didn’t I? Is it because of whatever I’m missing?

Gotta make this right.

I scramble around the sheets looking for the Kiss. Chocolate fixes everything. Chocolate Kisses fix everything. I’ll give him the Kiss and apologize and everything will be okay. “Billy?” He looks back over at me with tired eyes. I did that. I’m a monster. “H-here.” I hold out the aluminum wrapped treat to Bill but he doesn’t take it.

“It’s f-f-for you, Stan.”

“You should have it.” I push my hand out farther which only makes Bill lean away. “Bill, I’m sorry. Please, take it. You like chocolate more than I do, anyway.”

“It’s a  _ Kiss _ , Stan...” He looks at me expectantly for a minute but when nothing clicks, he picks up his orange soda and fidgets with the cap. He brought up a sprite for me. He hoards his sodas like a dragon hoards gold--- “I can’t run out of soda or I won’t be able to satisfy my moods!” Sprite is for when he’s drugged out and relaxed or when he spends the afternoon in the sun drawing. Root Beer is what he drinks most often. Any time he’s stressed or can’t decide between Sprite and orange soda. I’m not sure why he drinks the orange soda. He usually has it when we’re hanging out alone and sometimes when the Losers are around.

“I’m sorry, Big Bill.” I want to move closer to him but I don’t know if he wants me closer. He doesn’t seem angry but he definitely seems upset. Was it the bird watching? Surely. He loves Kisses, he wouldn’t be upset that I wanted to give him one. “I want to go bird watching with you. I really do.”

“Stan, it’s okay. We don’t have--”

“No! I wanna go! I want to be alone with you, too.” For different reasons. Does he need to know that, though? “I was just confused, I guess. I mean, we are alone right now. Hasn’t exactly been the greatest of days, but we are alone. And we do hang out together without the Losers often. But I would like to go bird watching with you.” I add on when he begins to protest again.

Bill moves back towards me, moving the plate off my lap and setting it on the ground with his own. He stops inches short of having our arms touch. Is he as worried about touching me as I am him? Of course not. Bill’s straight. “I know y-you like b-b-bird watching al-alone.”

“I like bird watching with people who can be quiet and sit still,” I correct him.

“You always go a-alone.”

I shrug. “Because none of the Losers can go with me and not scare off all the birds. Plus, I didn’t know you’d want to come along.” There’s too much space between us. This sweater is too thick to be able to feel Bill’s heat through the material now that Bill isn’t as warm as before. Even with the layers of bandages and cloth I suddenly feel goosebumps prickling my flesh as the heat of my body drains away. A shiver wracks through me.

“You’re c-cold.” He reaches behind us for the blanket that ended up being tossed against the all and wraps it around me. Better, but not Bill’s heat. “Anyw-way, I’d like to go with y-you. You’re happy bird wah-wah-watching and I luh-love it when you’re happy. I hate seeing you hurt s-s-so mu-much.”

I want to leave. The memories of today are foggy--- I know what happened but I can’t look too far into them--- but I hate that I let Bill see any of it. I shouldn't have come here. Even if he doesn’t hate me for any of it, having to deal with your best friend’s panic attack or fucked up arms is bound to be upsetting. I need to apologize.

Bill must be able to tell my thought process because as soon as I open my mouth to apologize and give an excuse as to why I can’t stay, he cuts me off. “Don’t you d-dare apologize.”

“...I wasn’t about to apologize.”

“Yes you were. I know y-you. You feel guilty ab-about today. Think y-y-you upset m-me and should leave.”

He knows me too well. “...No.”

“You didn’t ups-set me,” He continues on, ignoring my blatant lie. “I p-p-promise. Don’t leave.” When I drag my gaze away from my hands I find Bill looking at me. That should be illegal, if you ask me. He’s too pretty for that. Everytime he looks at me I could cry. He’s too perfect for the world. “Stan…?”

We shouldn't talk about this anymore. “You want to watch the movie now?”

“Stan--”

“It’s getting late. If we don’t watch it soon neither of us will stay awake.” That’s a lie. Neither Bill nor I have any semblance of a sleep schedule. We nap during the day when we can and lay awake at night or, in Bill’s case, draw and write until his hands bleed.

I start to get up to move our dishes away from the bed and put the bird book away but Bill stops me with a hand on the sleeve of my sweater. “Stan. You know we h-have to talk ab-about today, right?”

Why do we? It’s just what happened. All the Losers have panic attacks and days that are worse than others. Yeah, everyone else can wear short sleeves and shorts, but that doesn’t matter. We don’t need to talk about today. I don’t need to push my luck and I don’t need to talk. “No we don’t.”

“Yes we do.” He’s still holding onto my sleeve. Not my wrist or my arm. Just the sleeve. How could I have let myself be so weak as to show someone so pure and deserving of good all the bad in me?

“Why?”

“Because.” That isn’t an answer and I tell him as much. “L-look, we don’t  _ have  _ to d-d-do anything you d-don’t w-want. I k-know talking to people isn’t y-your thing. But…” Isn’t it funny how someone with so much control over words that they can write thousands of eloquently formed sentences can barely make it through four sentences of speaking without having to think? “We’re all suffering b-because of It. And we a-all help each oth-th-ther. You’re trying to be a hero. Suffering alone so we d-don’t know. B-but, Stanny, I love you too much t-to let you suffer a-a-alone.”

I’m no hero. I’m a coward.

And I want to talk to Bill  _ so bad _ . Smiling and putting on a show is so tiring. I avoid speaking so nothing I can’t take back gets said. There are so many thoughts in my head at all times that I feel like I might spontaneously combust. Talking makes my racing thoughts slow down enough for me to get the words out. Talking puts things into more of a perspective, especially talking to someone else. Talking to yourself just feels like chucking a rubber ball at a concrete wall only to have it come hurtling back at your face two times faster.

Bill is nice and comforting and safe. If my thoughts are loud and ugly when I’m around Bill they seem more manageable. When I get drunk with Richie and say more than I mean to it feels like the bands that had been squeezing my stomach and lungs suddenly snap and I’m free. Richie, of course, is always too drunk to remember a word I say, though. I would like to know like what it would feel to tell someone who’s sober and will remember our conversation and everything I feel. Would it be just as freeing or do I only feel that sense of flight because I know Richie won’t be able to throw my words back at me the next day?

Maybe I’ll find out soon enough. Bill is trustworthy. And he’s kind and understanding. And I’m so in love with him it’s stupid.

“Bill--”

“Stan. I love you. E-end of disc-cussion.”

My heart flips every time he tells me he loves me. I know he means he loves me as a best friend but my heart doesn’t listen to logic. All it hears is “I love you” and that’s all I ever want to hear from Bill. Any love from Bill is good enough for me. My heart is a greedy little bitch and wants so much more, though.

I sigh. “Okay, okay. I love you, too, Bill. But we still don’t need to talk about… any of this.” My arms are tingling again. I pull at my sleeves, rubbing them desperately against my arms in an attempt to lessen the burning need to itch. Is it just me or is it suddenly getting so much hotter in here? Should we open a window?

“H-h-hey, Stan--” I know he’s looking down at my arms. I’m such a freak. “It’s okay. Look, d-don’t do that, o-o-okay?” He, once again, pulls my hands off my arms. His touch is gentle. No grabbing, just holding. He keeps one hand on my hands--- which are now in my lap--- and with his other hand he brings our heads together until our foreheads are touching and he’s looking me directly in the eyes. He’s so soft and safe.

I could die right here. With Bill smiling at me, holding my head against his. I would not mind dying like this. If some alternate reality Stan is given the same opportunity, I hope he gets to die with his Bill like this.

“Everything’s okay, Stanny Baby.” Oh. Oh, that’s new. That is very much a new name. But that must just be a friend thing. Cause Bill keeps rubbing his thumbs over my knuckles and my cheekbones. He isn’t leaning away or anything. Just a friend thing. Just friends. “We don’t have to t-t-talk right now. Or ever. I th-think it might h-help but I won’t puh-puh-push you.” Bill stopped pushing so much after that summer. Whether that’s because Bill hasn’t been so motivated to do anything like he was to find Georgie since we made our first venture into the sewers in search of the lost boy or if his lack of pushing is more directly related to the fight is something debated highly debated between the two brain cells that can’t sleep in my brain at three in the morning.

Maybe it’s a combination of the two. I’ve seen Bill be motivated to create or laugh since Georgie but it’s short lived. A short story here and there that generally remains filed away in the  _ WIPs _ folder shoved to the back of his desk drawer. Every now and then a drawing will show up and force its way into Bill’s life long enough for Bill to block out the rest of us and pour everything he has into that sheet of paper. Most of the drawings manage to get finished. After that, though, he zones out again. Too tired to do anything, too emotionally drained, to follow through on more whims. He can push when he really wants to.

On the other hand, he doesn’t push the Losers much anymore even when we can tell he really wants to. No one talks about the fight from years ago. If Richie still flinches ever so slightly when Bill raises a hand, it goes unsaid. And if Bill drops his hand a little too fast with awkward pain digging into his eyes, the world moves on without a word being said. The last time any of us spoke of it was years ago. Just between Ben and me.

At some point Richie apparently got shitfaced enough to let Ben in on a conversation that was most likely meant to be kept behind the closed door of Richie’s attic, however, Richie is impulsive and Ben is far too kind so now at least four of us know, though I suspect more. Not long after summer drew to an end and school started up again, Bill and Richie had a talk. The exact words that were exchanged were mostly made of crude jokes and incoherent noises according to Richie (Ben spared me of the jokes). The gist of the exchange was this: Bill was sorry for having tunnel vision and endangering the rest of us, and for, you know, punching Rich in the face. Richie was sorry for being impulsive and yelling at Bill when he just wanted his brother back. Bill told Richie he’d try to listen more. Richie said he’d try not to yell at Bill for any other bright ideas. We’re all on the same team here. The Losers against the world.

I’m not really sure why this conversation took place at all. We don’t apologize to each other. Not outright. If Richie shows up with drinks we know he’s saying sorry. If Eddie doesn’t pick a fight and admits our ideas aren’t ridiculous, we understand that’s his way of apologizing. Same with Bev and her hugs, Mike and his food offerings, Ben’s handwritten quotes he thought we’d like, my letting someone else choose the music, and Bill silently nodding. We all knew we were all sorry for everything that happened, no one needed to say the words. It was fine.

But the words were said and they were confusing. Maybe there’s something more from that summer Bill and Richie agreed to never tell that would fill in that tiny gap. Regardless of the reasoning, Bill told Richie he didn’t want to push us. Those words weren’t meant to be spread to the rest of us--- though we all do know now--- but Bill meant them. And he’s followed through. No more pushing. Not too much, at least.

“Let’s juh-just watch the movie and rest for n-n-now, okay?”

Nod. We can talk later. It won’t be a push, just a talk. Between the two of us. Willingly. Because he cares.

“Good.” Another smile. Soft and sweet. “P-p-pick your spot, I don’t c-care where I sit.” I move over to the side of the bed closest to the wall and tuck myself into the corner while Bill struggles to get the electronic to turn on.

It doesn’t take long before Bill is flopping himself down on the bed next to me, TV in hand. “You want a b-blanket?”

“Uh, sure.” Might as well. I’ve already got my favorite pillow propped up behind me.

Bill pulls a blanket up from the bottom of the bed and frowns at me. “Y-y-you’re so far o-over. Come here.” Then Bill is tugging me closer to the center of the bed. Closer to him. “This okay?” He asks once he’s situated himself so his back is pressed against my chest and his entire body securely between my legs. This is definitely more than fine by me. I might very well die soon because of this but that is… ideal. Dying not only with Bill Denbrough but  _ with Bill Denbrough seated between my legs. _

“Is this okay with you?” I don’t want him to think he has to do this for me. He was the one to initiate this, I know, but still. He shouldn't feel like he has to be like this because I want this. In a friendly way, of course. Shit,  _ does  _ he think I  _ like  _ him? I do, but… he doesn’t need that knowledge.

“Yeah. You’re warm, Stanny. Comfortable.”

I shouldn’t think too hard about that. It’s just a friend thing. Richie cuddles up to Mike when Eddie won’t let him use him as a pillow. Just good friends.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soft chapter!! just the two of them being stupid!!

My hands are awkwardly placed by my sides. I can’t very well cross them in front of my chest without hitting Bill and, as appealing as it sounds, I don’t know how strictly platonic consciously cuddling my best friend from behind truly is. I couldn’t exactly play it off as anything other than what it is--- gay pining.

Damn. It really is gay pining, isn’t it? Pining because dear  _ fuck _ I want to kiss him so badly, and gay because… I’m gay? Wanting to kiss Bill is rather gay isn’t it? That feels weird, though. Saying that.

I’m gay.

Can I say that if I’m not really sure? It makes me feel strange. Like a weird bubble of dread and brightness is slowly inflating in my chest, squeezing all the air out of my lungs to make space for it. I’m not sure I like it. Maybe those words are better left tucked away in a corner of my mind of which I’ll inevitably lose track and never find again. I’d be fine with that. Mostly.

“Can y-you even see th-the screen?” Bill asks. I can’t. His head is in my way but I had no plans of mentioning this in fear that Bill would move to my side or suggest we go downstairs. My own discomfort is not something I’d even consider mentioning if it meant disturbing Bill.

Still, I answer him honestly. “Uh, not really. But it’s okay,” I add hastily when Bill starts to pull away. My words don’t make a difference. He shuffles around for a moment, positioning the screen on his knee, and sliding farther down the bed so his head is securely under my chin. 

He turns a little to smile up at me. It’s ridiculous how perfect this asshole always looks. He’s beautiful and I hate him for it. But only a little. “B-better?”

The growing knot in my throat threatens to catch when I answer, “Yeah, this is fine.” If Bill notices, he’s kind enough to not mention it. 

The movie continues playing on the screen in front of us, though if I hadn’t seen it before, I doubt I’d be able to recount any of the beginning. My focus keeps being pulled off of Westley and Buttercup to how warm Bill is, or how soft his hair is when he’s got himself . I keep twisting the bed spread around my hands and the movement catches Bill’s attention. He takes each of my hands, gently holding on to my fingers so I have an out if I want it, and wraps my arms around his shoulders. He doesn’t let go of my hands, instead threading the fingers of his left hand through mine.

“Is  _ this-s  _ okay?”  _ More than okay _ . I could so easily play with his hair or pull him closer so there’s not even a pocket of space between us. I won’t. Because I’m too sober to make any ridiculously stupid decisons.

“Yeah, of course this is fine,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the very thin and very obvious crack in my voice. It’s getting difficult to breathe again. Not in the panic attack induced hyperventilation way, just in the holy-fuck-Bill-Denbrough way to which I’ve become rather accustomed over the years.

“You sure? You seem t-tense.”

I bite back any impatient remarks that I have a habit of spitting out when I am, in fact, tense and on edge. “I’m-- I’m not tense.”

“Sure you are! I know th-the difference b-b-between you being t-tense and you being stiff a-and uncomf-fortable.” He tilts his head back against my shoulder, looking up at me--- I’m sure he doesn't  _ mean _ to expose his neck like…  _ that _ but it sure as hell is distracting. Absolutely not helping my rapidly increasing pulse.

“I’m fine, man. Really. I’m fine.” I keep my focus on Bill’s face. Though, even his stupidly perfect face has the ability to make a blush creep its way along every inch of my skin. Not to mention the fact that while I had been getting used to the very present scent of Bill around me thanks to his sweater, the new and wonderfully close proximity to Bill has only renewed that scent and is making my head spin.

His look is skeptical but he seems to take my response as good enough and turns back to the screen. “Fine. Whatever y-you say,” He mutters and fully leans back against me once again.

I put all my energy into keeping my mind from wandering to the fact that Bill is  _ very _ pressed against me and  _ very  _ close and I am so fucking close to spontaneously combusting just from this. Bev would say it’s cute but pathetic. Eddie would be worried I had some kind of disease. Richie would tell him to be quiet for once.

I don’t know what Bill would think.

Not necessarily of this specific situation. Just of… general feelings that I might harbor for someone. The last time Bill and I talked about crushes was when he was pining after Bev. I don’t think I was a good audience so we stuck to keeping those sorts of things to ourselves after that.

Maybe he’d think it was funny.

Maybe he’d turn red, laughing his ass off at my, admittedly, laughably pathetic situation. He always liked a good joke, having spent most of his childhood around Richie and Eddie. I’m not sure if this would make him laugh in a friendly way, though. I can imagine his laugh so easily, loving all the memories of the sound. I have more than enough childhood memories of laughter over subjects of which none of us are proud.

So much time today has been spent trying to convince myself to believe everything I desperately want to believe but am too afraid of being hurt to believe. I feel ridiculous. It’s just fighting with myself and neither side is winning. Sure, the more I think and the longer Bill’s touches linger, I’m swept away with everything I’ve ever wanted, but it still feels wrong. Not because of Bill. Just… because of something. I can’t think well enough--- nor do I really want to--- to give that something a name right now. It’s much easier and  _ so much _ nicer to just let it be and take the opportunity to let myself relax for once with Bill.

If I ever feel safe, it’s with Bill.

So I’ll put away my troublesome thoughts and I’ll focus on Bill. Just like I said I wouldn’t. 

“Stop thinking s-s-so much. You’re m-missing the movie.”

“I’m not thinking. I’m watching the movie,” I say and carefully rest my chin on the top of Bill’s head. He hums softly, something I will be taking as a good sign. That this is still coming across platonic enough. That Bill is happy like this. That this is actually okay.

“...Stanley?”

Quietly, my brain panics. Full names are rarely used between The Losers, with the exception of Bev’s. But I’m not thinking right now. I won’t let myself. “Yeah, William?”

“Do… Do you think B-b-buttercup is p-pretty?”

“Yeah,” I reply without even thinking. The immediate response doesn’t feel like a lie. She is a pretty girl. Her long hair and red dress make her rather attractive. Even her headstrong personality is attractive.

Bill nods. “I think she is, too.”

If I were allowing myself to think, I’d be worrying over what his question and soft agreement could possibly mean. But I am  _ not _ thinking right now.

“...Hey, Stan?”

“Hello, Bill.” He fiddles with my fingers, twisting them between his own. “I can practically feel you thinking. What’s up?” I let him keep playing with the fingers of my one hand but lightly start combing through his hair with my other. We used to play with each other’s hair when we were kids. That stopped being a regular occurrence years ago. Now, it’s a habit that mostly only shows back up when someone’s upset.

“Wh-wh-what about…” It isn’t his stutter that interrupts him this time. He just gets quieter before speaking again in the softest voice I think I’ve ever heard Bill use. “What about Wesley?”

“What about him?”

“Do you th-think  _ h-h-he’s  _ pretty?”

Do I? Yeah. He is pretty and my brain isn’t allowed to overthink that right now. “Pretty like I think Buttercup is pretty, you mean?”

“Um… Yeah…?” I swear I can feel his skin getting slightly warmer where my fingers accidentally brush his forehead. Eddie would lose his shit and start rambling about fevers and other illnesses.

Sometimes it worries me how often I think about the other Losers. Maybe we’re all a little codependent at this point.

“I-i-i mean-- Do you th-think he’s p-pretty l-l-like Bev o-or any other g-g-girl would like h-h-him. N-n-not in a-a-a… Not in a… Y-you know… Not in  _ th-th-that  _ way.” If it weren’t for the sudden spike in Bill’s stutter and the way his fidgeting got worse, I would have laughed it off with confusion but left it alone, not wanting to disturb whatever might be hiding behind Bill’s words.

“Your stutter gets worse when you’re nervous. And when you’re lying.”

“I’m n-n-not l-lying about a-anything.”

“Mm, your stutter says otherwise, my dear friend.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

“Ah, you know you love me, Billy.”

He grumbles at that, pulling my arms around him tighter. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make my heart swell. “B-but uh… Back to the o-original question…?” He turns his head to look up at me again. The hesitant look he gives me almost makes me smile. Not  _ at _ his hesitance, just at how incredibly much I care for this dumbass.

“About Wesley being pretty?” He nods, biting his lip. “Yeah. I think he’s pretty. I like his eyes. And his hair is nice too, I suppose.” My answer surprises both of us. My fingers stop working through Bill’s hair for a moment before resuming, taken aback but not shocked by my words. Bill openly stares. “Why do you ask?”

“I um. I like his h-hair too. He’s p-pretty.”

Oh.

I guess I should have seen that coming. Bill doesn’t ask stupid questions for no reason. He can play them off as pointless if they go south but I’ve known him long enough to know his questions always mean something. I look down at him. He’s still staring up at me. I don’t know when he stopped chewing on his lip but he must have at some point ‘cause they’re separated just a little.

He really is beautiful.

“So does that mean you… like both?” I ask.

He nods and says, “I th-think so. That’s s-sorta why I don’t w-w-wanna admit to l-liking this movie. ‘Cause I like them b-b-both. I don’t w-want to hear Richie’s j-jokes.” He laughs a little, looking away and breaking the eye contact we had.

I nod.

He swallows and I’m in too much shock to have the decency to even pretend to look away. Fortunately for me, Bill doesn’t look back at me until he speaks again.

“Wh-what about you? Do you…?” He makes a vague hand gesture then shrugs. He writes wonderful stories but can’t find the same eloquence when speaking. It’s stupid and I love it.

“I don’t honestly know. Maybe? It’s really confusing.” That might be the most truthful thing I’ve told anyone in a while. He just nods again. “Is that okay?”

He turns back to look at me so fast our faces almost get knocked together. I, luckily, have the reflexes of a startled cat when it comes to avoiding physical touch that might get me in trouble, so I lean back soon enough to avoid the collision. “Of c-course it is! I know wh-what your d-dad says to you and all b-but it is okay.” He’s so close and looking me directly in the eyes. I should look away, break whatever’s going on here and move on. I really should because I can feel my skin flushing and my heart trying to rip itself from my chest.

“Th-thanks, Bill.”

He grins and the spell is broken. Not that I still don’t want to shove him back on the bed and kiss him until we run out of breath, it’s just easier to manage that want when he’s not intensely staring at me. “S-stutters are  _ my _ thing. Stick to y-y-your birds, Staniel.”

“Oh, that reminds me! I have a new bird I wanted to show you--”

“You absolute fucker!” He shoves the hand I had started to lift to flip him off away from him. He’s laughing again. I’m falling for him again. And that means I’m laughing right along with him because wherever he goes, I follow.

“You told me to stick to my birds, so I did!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, y-you ass.” He’s still smiling as he settles back down in front of me. We’re quiet for a few minutes, watching the movie, then he leans forward and pauses it.

“Is everything okay?” I ask as he turns around completely and wraps his arms around my shoulders. It takes me a moment to process what’s happening before I’m returning the hug by putting my arms around his waist.

“Y-yeah,” He says. “Just-- thank you. I h-hadn’t told anyone e-e-else. So, th-thank you for being n-nice. You always are.” I can feel him smiling against my neck. That feeling could kill me.

“I haven't told anyone else either. So, thank  _ you _ for being so nice. For being a good friend.” Now that I’ve calmed down enough, I’m sure the other Losers will react similarly enough to Bill but that doesn’t make Bill’s hug and kindness any less appreciated.

Pulling back, he smiles at me. I smile back, caught up in the softness of his eyes. So caught up it’s only after he presses the lightest of kisses to my cheek and has turned back around to start the movie again that I realize what he’s done.

“What was that for?” I ask.

He shrugs, unpauses the movie, and grins up at me as he places my arms around him once again. “I wanted to.”


End file.
